


sharpen me like a knife

by firehearte



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Canon Era, Humiliation, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Slow Burn, and i love it very much, its an emotional slow burn they kiss immediately lmao, this is really just. very kinky and stupid.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26866000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firehearte/pseuds/firehearte
Summary: “What part was fun, exactly? The fight you started on my streets, the cops threatenin’ to beat the shit out of us, or the sprintin’ for our fuckin’ lives?”Race has a penchant for getting into fights on Spot's turf, Spot has a weakness for pretty boys with a thing for pain. Kinktober 2020 is upon us.
Relationships: Spot Conlon & Racetrack Higgins, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 47
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What started as a trashy PWP idea has turned into a monster of a fic, with a plot and feelings and angst and kink to spare! Welcome to Kinktober 2020, folks.
> 
> Fair warning for a considerable amount of explicit content, I'll update the tags with each update. This is part one of probably 10-ish chapters? I only have 5 written and we're only just getting started. Who knows where these boys will take me!! Not me!

Spot Conlon doesn’t ordinarily care very much about his height — what he lacks in stature he more than makes up for in demeanor, if his status as head of the Brooklyn newsboys is anything to go by — but as he pushes himself to his limits as he sprints down the alley after Racetrack Higgins of all people, he curses the height Race has on him, several yards ahead of him as he leaps over the cracks in the ground and dodges the crumbling brick. It isn’t lost on him that Racer seems to know his way through the back alleys and side streets of Brooklyn just as well as he does, if not more so, and he adds it to the list of grievances he’ll take up with the Manhattan newsboy as he pumps his legs faster.

He can still hear the bulls yelling behind them, and he takes pride in the fact that they sound further away with every heaving breath that sends a jolt of pain through his lungs. His legs tremble as he pushes himself forward, eyes set on the blond curls that catch the dim light filtering down into the alley as Race runs faster than anyone he’s ever seen. He’d always assumed Racetrack’s nickname had come from his propensity for hanging around Sheepshead, but clearly there’s more to that story.

His running slows as the shouts fade and he’s halfway through processing the fact that Racer has run so far ahead he’s lost sight of him when a hand shoots out from a break in the wall he hadn’t even noticed and suddenly he’s standing flush against Higgins himself. Even with his back pressing into the brick, Race is only inches from him, breathing hard, color high on his cheeks and blue eyes positively sparkling with energy as he presses a finger to his lips.

Spot suppresses the retort on his lips that comes instinctively at the audacity of the boy in front of him to dare tell him what to do on Brooklyn turf when he catches the faint sound of running, and realizes the cops were never as far behind them as he’d thought. He stares Race dead in the eye, hoping his anger is palpable as he bites his tongue, and Race raises an eyebrow in a way that makes him wish there were more than a few inches between them.

Race straightens up and Spot’s brow furrows before he realizes the cops have found their alley, running dead parallel to them if the cursing is any indication. Race looks like he’s about to say something stupid and sarcastic and Spot claps a hand over his mouth, other arm shoving against his chest to keep him quiet. He knows Racer has a problem with running his mouth — hell, that’s what had gotten them in this mess in the first place — but for once, he’d like to think Race would know when to shut the fuck up.

They stay in this position for slightly longer than Spot thinks is really necessary — the footsteps of the police faded minutes ago and Race has long since stopped struggling against him, his breath hot against Spot’s hand as they stay silent and listen. Finally, Spot drops his hand, and glares up at Race as Race chuckles, wiping the back of his hand across his lips.

“That-”

“What the _fuck_ , Higgins?”

“- was fun,” Race finishes.

Spot stares at him incredulously. “Fun?” He cannot for the life of him place what part of the events of the past twenty minutes had been fun. “What part was fun, exactly? The fight you started on my streets, the cops threatenin’ to beat the shit out of us, or the sprintin’ for our fuckin’ lives?”

Race laughs, and Spot sees red at the absolute indifference he’s displaying, although there’s a wild look in his eyes that makes Spot think maybe Racer’s a bit more prone to such escapades than he’d previously thought.

“Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t dealt with before, y’know.”

“Fuckin’ easy for you to say when you’s not _Brooklyn_ , damnit Racer. Now it’s my goddamn mess to clean up, an’ you just get to go back ‘cross the bridge and you’s fine.”

Race’s brows knit together as he catches onto Spot’s anger, and Spot almost thinks that might be something similar to regret in his expression before he purses his lips and looks out to the alley.

“I think we’re fine now,” he says softly, and Spot looks to his right, where the larger alley outside the little alcove Race had _somehow_ known was here has been empty for a long while. Spot looks back to Race, suddenly realizing just how close he is. He coughs and side-steps around him, emerging out into the alley and rolling his shoulders back as he takes a deep breath. Race follows Spot’s lead and joins him, leaning back against the brick wall with a cockiness Spot wants to ruin.

“You’s wanna explain ta me what the fuck you’s doin’ here in the first place, ‘n why we just risked our necks runnin’ from the bulls for a fight you started?”

“I’s just havin’ some fun Spotty, no need ta get ya panties in a twist,” Race says, ever-present smirk maddening as he pulls a cigar from God-knows-where and places it in his mouth, winking at Spot.

“Have fun in Manhattan, then,” Spot says gruffly, anger still coursing through him as he thinks about the absolute hell he’s in for when he gets back to the lodging house.

“Ya didn’t need to get involved, ya know,” Race says suddenly, voice only slightly warbled by the cigar dangling from his lips, and Spot pauses.

“Huh?”

Race rolls his eyes and takes the cigar into his hands, twirling it around his fingers as he explains. “It was my mess, the only one who needed ta run was me. But ya got in the middle of it anyways, made it a newsies thing ‘steada a Racer thing,” he says, and Spot has no fucking clue what to say to that because… well, he’s right.

“Well, the cops are still technically lookin’ for us, ‘n you still gotta sneak back across the bridge. It’s gettin’ dark,” he says, gesturing at the dwindling daylight around them. Indeed, in the secluded narrow alley, he can just barely make out Racer in front of him.

“‘S fine,” Race says idly. “I know my way around,” he continues, and Spot crosses his arms at that.

“Yeah, ya do,” he says accusatively. “Care to explain how _that_ happened? This ain’t ya place, Higgins.”

“I’m here enough, Spotty, ‘n I run from the bulls more ‘n ya know.” Spot’s about to reply with a sarcastic remark when he remembers the dexterity with which Racer had flown down alley after alley, and the seemingly instinctive way he’d ducked into the alcove that had saved their asses.

He supposes he should extend some gratitude and credit to Racer for that, but it’s still his goddamn fault they wound up fleeing in the first place, and Spot can’t exactly look past the fact that Race, a Manhattan newsboy and Kelly’s goddamn right hand, has been messing around on his turf far more than he’d realized.

“‘S pretty stupid to taunt the cops if y’ask me,” he says instead, feeling certain of that fact, at least.

“They don’t scare me,” Race says proudly, straightening up slightly. The pride in his voice, the rolling of his shoulders, the uptilt of his chin makes Spot’s hands twitch.

“Yeah?” Spot asks, stepping closer to Race. “What does scare you?”

Race cocks his head at Spot in confusion, starting to shake his head when Spot steps even closer, nearly nose to nose with Racer. Race sinks back against the wall, eyes going wide as he takes in the intensity of Spot’s expression.

“I don’t scare you, do I, Racer?”

Race laughs softly, even as his eyes go even wider. “You may be king ‘a Brooklyn, but you’s not so scary,” he says.

Spot arches an eyebrow and lets his eyes rake over Race, who seems to be rather quickly realizing his predicament — pressed up against a wall in a deserted alley, far from anyone who would ever hear him if he yelled. Pressed up against that wall by none other than Spot Conlon, who ruled Brooklyn with an iron fist Racer seemed to quickly be remembering.

“Am I not?” Spot murmurs, voice low. And if he purposely lets a little danger seep into his tone, well, it’s only to watch Race’s lashes flutter as he takes a deep breath.

“No- I mean, yes, well-” he cuts himself off as Spot laughs, and Spot knows right then that he was right about every single thing he’d pegged Race as. Gay, for one. And that delight in the midst of the fight less than an hour ago, that bruising smile as he’d taken as good as he’d given...

“Well?” Spot asks expectantly.

“You’s scary,” Race whispers, “but I ain’t scared. Not ‘a you.”

“I don’t think ya know what a mistake you’s just made, admittin’ that,” Spot says slowly, revelling in the way Race’s chest heaves as he takes in Spot’s words.

“Why’s that?” Race asks, and Spot can tell he’s about to make another sarcastic remark, so he throws caution to the wind, grabs Racer by the front of his button-up shirt, and kisses him.

It isn’t soft — it’s quite the opposite, Spot pouring all of that pent-up frustration and energy into the kiss. Race melts, letting Spot take over as his lips part for Spot’s tongue and Spot sweeps inside, hands leaving Racer’s shirt to push him back against the wall. Race gasps as his back collides roughly with the brick, and then moans into Spot’s mouth. It only takes a second before Racer is kissing back, eager and wanting and pushing back against Spot. Spot shoves him back roughly, surging forward and placing a hand against Race’s throat to keep him in place as he bites roughly at his lower lip. Race lets out a gasp at the sensation as Spot pulls slightly, and Spot tucks that bit of knowledge away for later as he pulls away roughly, panting, taking in the sight of Racer in front of him — pink lips wet and parted, and shaking, Spot realizes with no small amount of pleasure. His pupils are blown so wide there’s almost none of that deep blue left, and Spot grins in carnal satisfaction.

“Go home, Racer,” Spot says roughly, trying to calm his own beating heart as he watches Race fight to get a hold of himself. It’s only now, staring at him in the dim light, that he realizes with a shock that there’s blood on Race’s face — blood from where he’d placed his own bloodied hand over his mouth. The dark thrill that runs through him is enough to force him to push harder for Racer to run. “This ain’t ya territory, ‘n the sun’s goin’ down.”

“What?” Race asks, and Spot almost feels bad for the boy, clearly struggling hard to form words.

“Go home,” he repeats, looking up at the sky, which has darkened to a deep blue. “It’s gonna rain, too. Ya betta’ be fast,” he says with a wink.

“Ya think I’s leavin’ after that?” Race asks, raising a trembling hand to brush his hair from his eyes.

“I know ya are,” Spot says, no small amount of hardness in his voice. “This part ‘a town ain’t no place for Manhattan at night. An’ I ain’t about ta take ya home with me,” he says, a bit harsher than necessary. It’s hard now to make out Racer in the near-darkness, but he can still hear how hard the boy is breathing, and he grins to himself in the dark.

“‘S a bit harsh, don’t ya think?” Race asks. “Kiss me ‘n leave me?”

Spot laughs, realizing Race might not be aware of his _other_ reputation. A part of him is almost excited at the thought. “Somethin’ tells me you’ll like this better ‘n the alternative,” he says, even as his mind races with the possibilities of taking Race here, in this alley, or taking him home and showing him what a night in Brooklyn could really look like.

Race leans back against the wall in the dark, and Spot really hears rather than sees him pop that damn cigar back in his mouth.

“Fine,” Race acquiesces, and Spot has no idea how to explain the bizarre mix of disappointment and relief that flows through him at the word. “See ya around, Spotty,” he quips, and even though Spot can’t see it, he just knows Race winks at him. Faster than Spot can think of something to say, Race is gone, taking off down the alley like a bolt of lightning. Spot squints after him, watching until he can’t hear Race’s feet slapping the pavement anymore.

“Well, fuck,” Spot says into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments on the last chapter!! This story is getting away from me, and I don't seem to be slowing down anytime soon. Enjoy!!

Racetrack Higgins has never been known for his patience. Between his smart-talking mouth and his constant energy, Racer is the kind of person who is getting in and out of trouble constantly, and thrives on it.

That same restlessness that had begun to emerge as he’d sprinted down those Brooklyn alleys, Spot Conlon himself on his heels, has thrummed through Race for the past month. To an innocent onlooker, Racer was agitated, fidgety, maybe a little anxious. Nothing special — he was nearly always like that. But to those select few Manhattan newsboys in the know (Jack, Albert, and a few other with the same inclinations as himself), Racer was _absolutely fucking dying._

“Jesus, Racer, can you give it a rest?” Jack snaps one day, glaring at Race’s bouncing leg as they lounge in Jacobi’s, waiting out the torrent of rain that had ruined a perfectly decent headline.

“What?” Race looks up from where he’d been staring at the ground, lost in thought. “Oh, sorry.”

He couldn’t particularly say he was, in fact, sorry, when he’d been spending the past several minutes fantasizing about Spot Conlon’s hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, Spot Conlon’s hand on his throat, Spot Conlon’s hands on his chest shoving him back against that damn brick wall —

“ _Race_ ,” Jack exclaims, exasperation contorting his amused smile into a grimace. He leans over and places his hand hard on Race’s thigh to steady it, and Race can’t help it — he has to bite down on his tongue hard to keep the vocal reaction at bay.

Jack huffs and rolls his eyes, beyond exhausted with Racer’s pent-up tension. For ages now, Race had been on a knife’s edge, jumpy and distracted and entirely useless when it came to any of his responsibilities (not that _that_ problem was particularly new, but his inability to concentrate had reached heights yet unseen by Jack in all his years of knowing Racer).

“I dunno what’s gotten into ya, Race, but ya better sort it out ‘cause I’m goin’ crazy watchin’ ya,” Albert pipes up, and Race turns to glare at the redhead, who he knows knows perfectly well what’s _gotten into him._ Albert winks and Race groans, falling back against his chair dramatically.

“Come off it, Albert, we all knows it’s a _boy_ ,” Jack says, mirth dancing in his eyes.

Race sits bolt upright, head automatically whipping around to see if anyone is close enough to hear, heart rate picking up even as he notes with relief that they’re the only ones within earshot.

“Relax, Racer, ain’t no one else here. An’ we all knows it’s true, ‘n ya don’t gotta be worried ‘bout _that_ , least not wit’ us.”

“ _Still,_ Jackie, fuck’s sake,” Race says harshly.

“Question is,” Albert continues mercilessly, waggling his eyebrows at Race, “which boy?”

“Been a month and ya still won’t tell us,” Jack says with an exaggerated frown.

“An’ I ain’t _gonna,_ ‘cuz you’s _annoyin’_ ,” Race says loudly. _And if I told you, you’d kill me,_ he thinks darkly.

Race is from Manhattan, born and bred and proudly so, but the Manhattan-Brooklyn rivalry was part and parcel of being a newsie, and his friends tended to be more than a little territorial when it came to interaction with Brooklyn. Getting Jack to stop yelling at him for hanging around the Sheepshead had been a months-long project in itself, and Jack had only dropped _that_ when he realized he could use Racer’s newfound familiarity with Brooklyn to his advantage, should he need to. Knowing what had happened in that alley with Conlon… Race is pretty sure Jack would rather he admit to messing around with one of the Delanceys.

It’s not that he thinks Jack or Albert or the others would _actually_ kill him. It’s that he thinks they would kill _Spot,_ or more likely, get hurt trying. Considering the relative scrappiness of his fellow Manhattan newsboys up against the calculated nature of one Spot Conlon, who he knows from both the rumors and the way Spot had taken down not two but _three_ grown men before tearing off after him, Race has more than enough reason to suspect Spot is _very_ well-versed in that sort of fighting.

A shiver goes up his spine at the thought, and he stands abruptly. He barely mutters out an excuse about getting some fresh air, followed quickly by internal cursing as he realizes the rain hasn’t let up in the slightest, and steps outside, lingering under the awning as he debates his predicament.

He hasn’t dared set foot in Brooklyn since that night — he hadn’t even looked back before he’d darted across the final yards of the bridge and slipped back into Manhattan proper, slowing to a jog as the rain Spot had predicted came in trickles, letting the water cool him off as he took the long way back to the lodging house.

He lets the rain take the same course now, stepping out into the street and closing his eyes in relief at the merciful chill it sends through him. He’s needed to cool down more often than he’d like to admit in the last few weeks — not even running until he thought his heart would burst out of his chest could calm his racing mind. He’d had to take to more unsavory ways to let off steam, taking the time when he could find privacy (near-impossible in the busy lodging house, much to his chagrin) to chase the release he craved. It was never enough.

It was never enough, and damn him, he knew exactly what would be, and for some goddamn reason he wouldn’t let himself go after it. After him. Spot _fucking_ Conlon, with his dark brown eyes that swallowed him whole and his calloused hands and his jaw set in a permanent scowl that sent Race’s heart into overdrive.

Race knows if he goes back to Brooklyn, Spot will find him. He swears he can feel Spot’s eyes on him, which is impossible, because Spot never deigns to set foot in Manhattan, and he certainly wouldn’t do so for _him_ of all people.

Even if he had, for some reason, cornered him in that alley and kissed him. He hadn’t thought he was special to Spot Conlon until then — and he still doesn’t, entirely, considering what Spot’s known for. But Spot had still chosen him that night, and knowing that made Racer think things no decent person should think.

Race sets off in frustration, walking aimlessly, not caring that the rain drenches him as he strides along the sidewalk — the rain is a nice reprieve from the oppressive humidity and the continuing ache that surges through him, making his mind wander every few goddamn minutes.

He wishes Spot would turn up at the lodging house and finish what he started. He wishes he had the nerve to go back over the bridge, even with the knowledge of what giving into Spot Conlon might do to every other part of his life. Even knowing Jack might not approve — _especially_ knowing Jack might not approve.

Spot’s reputation isn’t exactly stellar, in any sense of the word. The fact he’s even _out_ is a goddamn miracle, and the only reason he still runs Brooklyn is because he’s too goddamn terrifying for anyone to look twice at him. Dangerous, unpredictable, brutal, Brooklyn — all reasons Racer should stay away.

All reasons he wants to seek him out.

It doesn’t take long for Race to find his way back to the lodging house, even without meaning to. The rain isn’t going to be letting up any time soon, and he’s out of papers to sell anyways. He knows it’ll bite him in the ass, but he’s not a stranger to getting by by the skin of his teeth. He’ll manage without the extra cash, and besides — with most of the Manhattan newsies stuck out in various parts of the city sheltering from the rain, he’d bet he has the place to himself.

His pace slows as he hikes up the stairs to the room at the very top that he shares with Jack and four other boys, mind catching up with him as he realizes he's effectively abandoned his work for the rest of the day to get off to the thought of Spot Conlon.

 _I am so massively, massively fucked_ , he thinks, pushing open the door to the room at the top of the rickety stairs and collapsing on the bed just inside the door, directly to his right. It doesn’t take long — really, it takes an embarrassingly short amount of time — for his hand to wander downwards and slip underneath the waistband of his pants.

Spot’s smile flashes before his eyes as he touches himself, all teeth and no mercy in that look, that _look_ he’d given the man who’d called Race a downright filthy name right before he’d punched him square in the jaw. Racer had been handling himself just fine — he’d been called worse on a good day, and really, he wasn’t surprised, he’d been itching for a fight anyways — but something about seeing Spot Conlon send a grown man tumbling to the ground as blood splattered spectacularly through the air, seeing the satisfied grin on his face as he’d dared anyone else to try him… such sheer brutality in that face it had taken his breath away.

He’d been so caught up, in fact, in staring at Spot in awe that he’d gotten less of a head start sprinting in the opposite direction of the cops than he would’ve if he’d just paid some goddamn attention.

It serves him right, he thinks grimly as he works himself faster, bucking his hips against his hand as he remembers running through the streets, the thrill that had gone through him when he realized Spot had joined him. If someone ever accused him of picking his path based solely on that little hidden alcove he knew was a half mile up ahead, he’d have a hard time denying it.

He lets out a low groan as he remembers just how close Spot had been to him when they’d hidden from the cops. His heart had been beating out of his goddamn chest, so loud he was sure Spot could hear it, and not just from the sheer exertion of sprinting full-out for several minutes. And _God,_ when Spot had sensed what he was about to say and slapped his hand over his mouth…

Racer’s hips arch up off the bed at that memory, and the wild thoughts that had spun through his brain in the minutes they had stood in that very position before they’d deemed it safe. Spot had looked so fucking gorgeous, fists still covered in blood that wasn’t his own, face and body taut with tension, ready to snap out at a moment’s notice. Racer doubted he’d noticed it, noticed the way Race’s gasping breaths hadn’t let up in the minutes they stood still. He’d barely been able to cover up his desperation, making a shaky, snarky comment he couldn’t even remember that Spot had immediately berated him for.

Race had been so caught up in his tone and the anger emanating from him he could barely follow his words, let alone remind him that it was Spot’s fault _he_ was in trouble in the first place. Spot hadn’t seemed to know what to do with that.

But Spot had seemed to know exactly what to do with _him_ , pressing him up against that wall and asking him if he was scared. Race can hear his voice, deep and guttural and more than a bit dangerous, and it echoes in his head even as that telltale buzzing in his ears starts.

Race hadn’t been able to bring himself to admit that he knew all about Spot’s reputation, the reputation he focuses on now as he nears release, the one that whispers tales of back alleys and brutal, ruthless dominance. _Heartless._ That’s what people call him, that dark-eyed king of Brooklyn. Heartless, and savage, and downright cruel. Spot hadn’t seemed to be any of those things that night in the alley, but he’d also sent Racer away, that warning look in his eyes still one that sends an ache right to Race’s core whenever he remembers it.

It’s the thought of that promise that sends Race over the edge. That look in Spot’s eyes as he’d stared him down, the knowledge of what’s waiting for him in Brooklyn if he ever dares to go back.

 _Heartless._ As Racer lies there, panting, basking in the afterglow of his orgasm, he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind learning what that looks like.


	3. Chapter 3

Race doesn’t exactly mean to wind up back in Brooklyn.

As much as he’d wanted to — and _God_ he’d wanted to, had resisted every urge to cross that bridge again in a heroic and truly uncharacteristic display of restraint — he’d refrained, for weeks on end, logic for once outweighing sheer impulse and desire. He’d decided Spot Conlon was off limits (in person if not in his mind), and that was that.

Except that was very decidedly _not_ that, because now he’s crossing that damn bridge with the sole purpose of finding Spot Off-Limits Conlon, and his chest is tightening with every step further into Brooklyn. And really, it’s Jack’s fault in the first place, for sending him to deliver a message at all, let alone one about _him._

Him and Spot himself, not that Jack knows that. After enough of Race’s antics, Jack had finally snapped and demanded to know why Racer had been avoiding Brooklyn. It hadn’t taken long for him to put two and two together after that, as Race had tried to sputter excuses and Jack had realized the _boy_ in question and the Brooklyn problem were one and the same. Race hadn’t known how to tell Jack it wasn’t just a Brooklyn boy but the king of Brooklyn himself, and so here he is, bringing a note to Spot Conlon telling Spot Conlon to stop fucking around with Racer and let him sell and gamble in peace, for the sake of them all.

Race doesn’t know Spot all too well, but he knows enough to guess that Spot won’t like that very much. He decides that’s a perfectly usable excuse should things escalate.

It doesn’t take him long to find Spot. Even if he doesn’t know where that damn lodging house is (Spot keeps that information tightly under wraps, and Race would be lying if he hadn’t thought more than once about Spot’s comment about _taking him home_ ), Race knows his territory, knows his frequent haunts.

The sun is just shifting past its peak, late afternoon setting the sky ablaze with fiery oranges and reds, when Race peeks his head into the bar he knows Spot is sometimes found at after the afternoon rush dies down. Sure enough, there’s a group of boys in the corner, rowdy even by his own standards, and all of them seem to gravitate around Spot.

Spot isn’t sitting at the head of the table, but he may as well be for all the attention he’s afforded — where he lounges in the corner, people turn instinctively, looking to him after every joke. Spot seems bored, and maybe he is, here — Race, in all the times he’d met Spot, had never quite pegged him for a heavy drinker. Race doesn’t realize he’s stopped in the doorway to watch Spot until another man brushes past him, jostling him so hard he nearly falls over.

Race clears his throat, taking a second to brush the dust off his pants and regain his pride before he wends his way through the bar, ducking around servers and patrons alike, reveling in the Friday afternoon which, as he knows is bound to happen in Brooklyn, will soon turn quickly into nighttime escapades.

Race comes to a stop a few feet from the corner Spot holds court in, noticing as he does the clear line cut across the bar. Ordinary patrons stay away from Spot’s corner, and the Brooklyn newsboys — who all look, in such a large group, quite intimidating, not that Racer would ever admit that — stay in their corner, the few tables they’d dragged together demarcating territory. Race recognizes a few of the Brooklyn newsies: the ones who’d soaked him the first (and last) time he’d dared sell papers at the Sheepshead, and the two who always seemed to be at Spot’s shoulder.

It’s one of these particular boys — Hotshot, he remembers — who notices him first, and whistles lowly as he takes Race in.

Race leans against a pillar, smirking as the rest of the boys fall silent and turn to stare at him. Spot’s face is unreadable, and Race plucks his cigar from his mouth and waves cheekily.

“Whaddya doin’ here, ‘hattan?” Hotshot asks roughly, crossing his arms. Race ignores him and sets his eyes on Spot.

“Hiya, Spotty. Gotta message from Jack for ya.”

“It can’t wait?” Spot asks, looking supremely annoyed. To his delight, Spot’s jaw had clenched even harder at the nickname Race continued to insist on using.

Race shrugs helplessly, as if to indicate that he, too, was at the whims of Jack Kelly, and Spot sighs.

“What is it?”

“Huh?”

“The _message,_ Racer,” Spot says exasperatedly.

“Ah, yes!” Race fishes the note from his pocket and produces it proudly, waving it around. “Here ya go.”

Spot rolls his eyes and Hotshot snatches the note from Racer’s hand, passing it to Spot while keeping his eyes on Race. Race has to resist the urge to roll his eyes — Hotshot’s always taken his role way too seriously for his taste, but Spot doesn’t seem to mind.

Spot unfolds the note and his brow furrows as he reads. Race has to fight to keep the smirk from his face.

Spot looks up at him slowly, jaw clenched, and Racer finds himself wondering how it’s possible for those eyes to be so dark and so expressive at the same time.

“The fuck is this?” he asks.

“I’s come ta grovel for ya forgiveness, ya highness,” Race says, extremely pleased with himself as he watches the gears in Spot’s head turn.

Spot raises an eyebrow. “I don’t see much grovelin’.”

The boys around Spot cackle, and Race lets out a breathy laugh, eyes catching on Spot’s jaw as it twitches slightly. “Ya ain’t serious.”

“Serious as always, Higgins.” Race keeps his mouth shut, and Spot shakes his head, standing from his chair. “Outside, now.”

The other boys _oooh_ as Race follows Spot out the back door, back into a deserted alley behind the building, and Race feels a sharp sense of déjà vu run through him.

Spot stands for a second with his back to him, and Race lets himself take in the sharp lines of Spot’s shoulder blades visible through his shirt, appreciative glance turning into outright staring as his gaze trails downward.

Finally, Spot turns around, and the irritation on his face makes Race stand straighter.

“Explain,” he snaps, and Race frowns.

“Explain what?”

“I don’t take kindly ta bein’ accused of shit I ain’t done,” Spot growls. “An’ now you’s just gonna show up at my bar ‘n pull this shit? In front ‘a my guys?”

“Look, Spot, it’s just a joke, okay?” Spot doesn’t seem too happy with that explanation. “I told Jack that I was messin’ around with someone from Brooklyn an’ ya got mad an’ that’s why I haven’t come back, ‘cuz otherwise he’d have had too many questions an’ I didn’t wanna say anythin’ about… about that night, ‘cuz it woulda make things too complicated, y’know?” Race knows he’s rambling, but Spot’s expression isn’t getting any less angry. “I jus’ didn’t wanna make it complicated, I-”

Spot holds up a hand, and Race falls silent.

“Why’d ya stop comin’ ta Brooklyn?” he asks roughly.

“I dunno,” Race lies. He doesn’t know how to explain that he knows Spot is a bad idea, that he knows Spot is dangerous, or that as much as he’s been trying to stay away he’s laid awake every night since aching for those hands on him again.

“You’s not nearly as cocky as ya look, are ya?” Spot asks, and Race scoffs.

“Where d’ya get that from?” Race asks, and Spot takes a step towards him.

“‘Cuz ya stay quiet when I tell ya ta shut up, an’ this ain’t the first time, is it?” Spot asks, brow raised, and Race frowns as he realizes that he has a bad habit of doing whatever Spot Conlon tells him to.

Not that he’d minded thinking about that any of the dozens of times he’d gotten himself off remembering the first time he’d fallen silent at Spot’s command — not that Spot needed to know that. Spot is still waiting for a response, and Race scrambles for something to say.

“Ha,” he says weakly, several seconds too late. “Ya tell everyone what ta do, it ain’t my fault I go silent ‘round Spot Conlon.”

“Nah, you’s don’t. You’s cheeky, an’ ya like it, ‘cuz everythin’s a joke ta ya, huh?”

“Well, if it’s funny,” Race starts, and Spot cuts him off with a question he isn’t at all prepared for.

“Ya didn’t come back ta Brooklyn ‘cuz you’s scared, ain’t ya?”

Race shakes his head at that. “I told ya, Spotty, ya don’t scare me.”

“Right,” Spot says. “That may just be ya biggest mistake, Racer.”

“Why? ‘Cuz ya gotta rep for fuckin’ every boy in this city an’ leavin’ ‘em high an’ dry?” Race asks bravely, and then immediately regrets it when he sees the look on Spot’s face.

“I gotta rep for _what_ , exactly?” Spot asks quietly.

“I… well, Spotty, ya must know people talk,” Race says, “an’, well, ya know, you’s Spot Conlon, ya get around, everyone knows it.”

“An’ ya still came back,” Spot says.

“Well, this message wasn’t gonna deliver itself.”

“Ya didn’t hafta deliver it, Racer. Coulda been any one ‘a ya boys, but I’d bet money ya volunteered, huh?”

Race’s mouth falls open in shock at Spot’s dead-on assumption.

“Ya think ya know everythin’,” he laughs instead, hoping his shock isn’t too apparent as he tries to climb back out of the hole he’s slowly let Spot walk him into.

“I do,” Spot says.

“Bold, huh?” Race continues, false bravado waning as Spot steps closer and closer to him, until Race’s back bumps up against the door.

“I know you’s didn’t come back ‘cuz you was scared,” Spot says, and Race opens his mouth. “Not ‘a what I’d do, but what ya little friends back home would think of it when I’m through with ya.” Race closes his mouth. “I know ya haven’t stopped thinkin’ about that night for a second since ya ran off. An’ I know ya want more.”

There’s deafening silence between them and Race swears Spot must hear his pounding heart, how loud it sounds in his ears as he swallows the lump in his throat. Maybe he does, since he knows everything that’s spun through his mind for the last month.

“Maybe I do,” he whispers. “Maybe I want more.”

Spot stands even taller at that, triumph in his eyes as he takes Race in. Race feels naked and cold, suddenly, even in the late afternoon heat, thick and oppressive as it is. He feels _seen_ , in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before in his life. Spot says nothing, and Race finds himself asking a stupid, reckless surrender of a question.

“What else do ya know about me?”

Spot laughs, low and quiet and everything Race wants, sending a thrill down his spine that goes through him like a shockwave.

“Ya ain’t neva been touched before, have ya Racer?” Spot asks, and Race shakes his head, flushing as Spot’s sharp gaze rakes over him. How Spot had figured _that_ one out, Race really can’t even begin to guess, but there’s something about knowing that Spot knows and still wants him that makes him ache.

“Not... not by-”

“Men?” Spot finishes for him, running a finger down his chest. Race shivers, biting at his lip as he shakes his head silently, and Spot smirks.

“I mean...” Race says hesitantly, “we- a few ‘a the other newsies tried it, y’know, kissin’ ‘n stuff, but that was it, it wasn’t...”

“Wasn’t what ya wanted, was it?”

“No,” Race agrees, meeting Spot’s eyes. “It wasn’t.”

“Bet I can guess why that was,” Spot murmurs, stepping even closer to Race so that they’re flush against each other.

“Oh yeah?” Race asks, vision nearly crossing as he stares down, directly into Spot’s eyes.

“They was too nice, wasn’t they?” Spot asks, and Race inhales sharply. “Jack Kelly, so noble, so honorable... he couldn’t give ya anythin’ close to what ya needed, I bet.”

“No,” Race whispers. “None ‘a them could.”

“If I had ta guess…” Spot drawls, tilting his head up to get a good look at Race, and somehow Racer still feels like the one being stared down, “I’d bet that’s why ya run from the cops a lot, like ya said.”

“What?” Race is struggling to breathe now, and he’s finding it quite difficult to follow the conversation when he’s pressed up against the door by Spot.

“Ya said you’s run from the bulls more an’ I know, an’ I bet ya pick fights like that one I happened ta come across more an’ any ‘a ya ‘hattan buddies know either, huh?”

“May… maybe,” Race stutters out, chest heaving as he starts to realize where Spot’s going.

“An’ I bet it’s ‘cuz ya like fightin’, huh? Ya pick fights, ya get to let off some steam, an’ then ya can tear off inta the night like you’s always do, an’ I bet you’s get off to it later.”

Race inhales sharply at that, at the absolute precision with which Spot had dug in and pulled that dark secret free.

“Yeah,” Spot says slowly, taking in Race, pressed up against the door, chest heaving as Spot stands there and so casually whispers his innermost desires into the night. “I thought so.”

“Spot…”

“Don’t tell me I’s wrong,” Spot smirked, and Race shakes his head.

“No,” Race says softly. “It’s just…”

“What?”

“I fight ‘cuz I need ta fight,” Race explains, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like… it’s like somethin’s tryin’ ta tear outta me, like if I ain’t in the middle ‘a somethin’ like it in the next second I’ll lose my mind. I need it, I- I don’t know why, it’s just how I am.”

Indeed, _Racer’s need to fight_ is a source of frequent tension in the Manhattan newsboy lodging house, and if he wasn’t as good in a fight as he is, he had no doubt Jack would’ve found a way to put an end to it long ago. He doesn’t think he’s ever explained it quite like this to anyone before, but here he is, telling Spot Conlon about that inexplicable drive within him that he knows makes even those closest to him wary.

Spot doesn’t look wary; Spot looks _hungry_ , staring at Racer like he’s a delicacy he can’t believe he’s had the good fortune of stumbling across.

“I need ta fight too,” Spot says, and Race blinks at him. “Not like you — not like that,” he continues. “I need it different than you. Opposite from you. Do ya understand?”

Race thinks he’s starting to, staring down at Spot’s hands, which have curled into fists as he talks. He nods, and looks back up at Spot’s face.

“Are ya gonna kiss me again?” he asks, immediately cursing his impulsive brain for his lack of any sort of filter at all.

“Do ya want me to?” Spot counters, eyes flicking to his lips. Race knows he’s not asking about the kiss.

In answer, Race grips Spot by the front of his shirt and pulls him forward, other hand surging up to tangle in his hair as he crashes his lips against Spot’s. Spot’s hand catches his wrist, pulling it back down and pressing him back into the door. Race struggles to wrench his wrist free and Spot tightens his grip mercilessly, pressure increasing until Race goes limp and lets out a breathy gasp against Spot’s lips.

“Is that what ya want?” Spot asks, bruising grip making Race’s eyes flutter shut. He tilts his head toward Racer’s ear, breath hot against his neck. “Ya want me ta grab ya so hard I leave marks, an’ kiss ya til ya can’t breathe?”

Race nods silently, unable to speak when Spot’s doing such sinful things with his tongue against his neck.

“Ya know what I’s like, ya said? What I’s like, Racer? Tell me,” Spot whispers, and bites down where Race’s neck meets his shoulder. Race’s knees buckle at that blinding mix of pleasure and pain that runs through him.

“Come on, Higgins,” Spot murmurs, lips brushing against Racer’s neck right where Race is sure must be a bright red bruise. “Tell me what you’s heard about me.”

“I-I told ya,” Race stammers out, struggling to remember just what he’d said mere minutes ago. “You’s get around, we all knows it.”

“But that’s not all, is it?” Spot asks, pulling his shirt roughly aside to press another kiss down along his shoulder.

“No,” Race gasps out, hand not held against the door moving to grip Spot’s shirt and pull him closer.

“Tell me then,” Spot demands, and his voice brokers no room for Race to do anything else.

“You’s ain’t nice,” he whispers, knowing even as he says it how inadequate a description of Spot Conlon as _not nice_ is. Spot Conlon, who, according to the rumors, loves to take boys outside who come back later on, dazed and drunk on lust and marked up like no one’s ever seen. Spot Conlon, who people whisper fights and fucks in much the same way, harsh and unforgiving and more than a little wild. Spot Conlon, who cornered Racer in an alley on his home turf with that predatory glint in his eyes that promised so much more, it’s kept Race up at night thinking about the rumors and the whispers and how true all of them might be.

“Ya… you’s heartless, Spot,” Race groans out as Spot bites down again, and Spot pulls back, amused look on his face.

“I’s heartless, huh?” There’s a sort of pride in the way he repeats it, and Race nods slowly.

“Ya don’t seem that way ta me, but I don’t know ya all that well, do I?” Race asks.

Spot’s eyes narrow at that, and Race wonders if maybe he’s said the wrong thing when Spot kisses him again, letting go of his wrist to grip the back of his head, lips bruising his own. Race can barely keep his wits about him to kiss Spot back, so caught off guard by the intensity of it all, by the way Spot’s hands slide up his back and into his hair and grip him so tight Race thinks for a second maybe he’s just the next boy in line, and then promptly forgets that thought a second later when Spot bites at his lip and he moans low in his throat.

“Ya don’t know me, Higgins. Don’t forget that,” Spot says, and it takes Race a few seconds to realize Spot’s breathing equally as hard. Spot looks ready to pull away, and Race takes a chance.

“Ya gotta habit ‘a kissin’ me in alleys an’ then walkin’ away,” Race breathes. “When ya gonna finish what ya started?”

“Don’t tempt me, Racer,” Spot whispers. “Ya never know what rumors are true.”

Suddenly Spot is no longer pressed against him, not even anywhere _near_ him, backing away and, to Race’s pleasure, looking a bit regretful to be stepping away.

“Go tell Jack he can fuck off,” Spot says roughly, and Race understands the unspoken response — _until next time, once again_. “An’ tell ‘im next time he wants somethin’ from me or one ‘a the Brooklyn newsies, he can come ta me ‘imself.”

Race nods and pushes himself off the door, straightening out his shirt as he starts down the alley. He knows better than to head back through the bar, knows by now the Brooklyn newsies have probably placed bets on Spot kicking his ass. “Anythin’ else ya want me ta deliver, Spotty?”

Spot rolls his eyes. “Just a warnin’ for ya.”

“Oh?” Race arches an eyebrow.

“If ya gonna start hangin’ round Brooklyn again, ya better be on ya guard. Anythin’ can happen here.”

“I sure hope so,” Race counters immediately, and Spot’s eyes widen before he smirks.

“See ya around, Racer.”

Race takes that as his cue to leave, and he’s less disappointed this time that Spot seems to be able to brush him off so easily. Spot’s warning is a promise, and Race intends to make good on it. He’s nearly into the street, mind already wandering to how the hell he’s gonna explain this one to Jack when Spot calls his name.

“Higgins!”

Race turns around immediately, and takes to leaning against the wall to feign nonchalance, even though he’s pretty sure he’s already lost that fight.

“If you’s gonna come here and say ya wanna grovel for my forgiveness, I expect ya to do it,” Spot says, deadly serious, and Race can’t even think of a reply before Spot slips back inside and Race is left standing on the edge of the alley, suddenly glad he’s leaning against the wall since Spot has an ability to make his knees go weak that he can’t seem to shake.

Race looks down at his wrist, and sure enough, Spot’s fingerprints have left their mark on him, faint bruises wrapped around his wrist that send a thrill through him as he realizes just how tight Spot had been grabbing him. Just how good that pain had felt.

As he runs back across the bridge, trying to figure out what to report back to Jack, the only thing he hears over the steady pounding of his feet on the pavement is Spot’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all so much for all your comments on the last chapter and for liking this as much as I do!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!!! It's me, back with another sinful update. This chapter is fully explicit, so just keep that in mind!! (Most chapters will be going forward). Thank you all so much for reading/commenting/leaving kudos! :D Enjoyyy

Spot only takes a few seconds to gather himself in the darkness of the back hallway before he strides back into the taproom, taking his seat in the corner. Hotshot raises an eyebrow at Race’s absence, to which he sends back a look that says _don’t ask_. 

Hotshot may be nosier than he likes, but his ability to read Spot’s expressions and his unfailing loyalty make him a perfect second-in-command. They rarely need to speak to communicate, which makes it easy for Spot to stay quiet and observe his surroundings — his preferred state, if he’s being honest. There aren’t many Brooklyn newsboys who think before they act, and his keen eyes and calculating nature are a big part of the reason he holds the status he does. He holds their trust, he’s known for his smart decisions, and he can more than hold his own in a fight.

You don’t become king of Brooklyn by rolling over, or by being soft. No, he’d taken that crown the second he could, clawing his way up the ladder and snatching it right out from under the older boys. Their anger had died quickly when he’d taken the Brooklyn newsboys from nothing to a group to be reckoned with.

He was a reckoning himself, rising up through the ranks and crowning himself through blood and lies and deceit. It was worth it, he told himself again and again. It was worth it to break people’s trust and fight his way to the top, for this. He’d earned it back and then some afterwards, anyways.

And here he is, so thoroughly distracted from everything he’d worked for because of one blue-eyed boy from Manhattan he just can’t seem to shake.

“Boss, ya good?”

That’s Hotshot, staring at him with an expression that would read as boredom to anyone else, but Spot sees the concern in his eyes.

“Fine,” he says gruffly, sitting forward in his chair and resting his arms on the table in front of him. “What’d ya say?”

“I was sayin’, d’ya think ya can help find one ‘a the new guys a place ta sleep tonight? There ain’t any room at the lodging house an’ he shouldn’t be out on the streets, y’know?”

“Mmhm,” Spot says absently. He knows which kid Hotshot’s talking about — Will, new kid, young (too young) — and he knows why Hotshot’s keen to keep him off the streets. Kids like Will, newly orphaned and hungry for cash, get dragged into work not fit for anyone, let alone children, way too often in Brooklyn. Having narrowly been saved from one such undesirable line of work himself only a few years ago, Hotshot considers it his own personal side job to find beds for any orphans in Brooklyn that he can.

“D’ya think maybe York could help?” he asks, running through his short (much, much too short) list of people who might be able to help.

“I mean, maybe, Boss, but ya know-”

“Give him my bed for the night,” Spot says suddenly, getting up from the table. Several heads turn to him, and his other confidant, Myron, pipes up with his usual verbosity.

“Huh?”

“I said, let him sleep in my bed,” Spot repeats. “D’ya need it slower?”

“No, I’s just-”

“Or ya can take mine an’ everyone can rotate so he gets a shitty one, I don’t care. The boy’s six years old, he ain’t sleepin’ out on the streets.”

“An’ where you’s sleepin’, then?” Hotshot asks, directing a not-so-subtle wink at him. Spot scowls back.

“Don’t worry about it,” he snaps, and stalks off.

As he walks towards the door, he can feel eyes on him, following him as he swerves around tables and servers and too-rowdy patrons who started drinking early. There are always eyes on him, a sensation he grew accustomed to years ago, but tonight he can feel Brooklyn eyes on him too — never a good sign, when his own get too invested. He keeps order well enough, but lately he’s been slipping.

The insidious nature of Racetrack Higgins, he’s found, will do that.

He’d written it off as a one-time thing, the first time. They’d both been caught up in the fight, in the chase, and he’d kissed Race because it had been the only thing he could think to do. The flirting had come easily enough, but Racer’s insistence that he wasn’t scared had intrigued him more than he wanted to admit. Race was telling the truth, that much was certain. And not out of ignorance either — today had proven that Race knew more than enough about Spot’s reputation, and he’d still come back to Brooklyn. It had taken a month — a month Spot had definitely _not_ spent with an eye out for a certain blond, a month Spot had spent diligently doing his job — but when he’d showed up at today at the bar, Spot had had to fight embarrassingly hard to keep his eyes from focusing solely on those lips.

He can’t help but wonder if Racer’s oral fixation stretches beyond his unlit cigars. Race certainly seems like someone who’d like being forced onto his knees and given something to wrap his lips around.

The sun is setting when Spot approaches a nondescript restaurant on the other side of town. He enters through a side door and walks right up to the basement door. The man standing out front smiles broadly at him, but doesn’t budge from the door.

“I’s a friend ‘a Pearl’s,” he says quietly. “Really, Frank, ya know me by now.”

“Sorry, Boss, ya know it’s protocol,” Frank quips, stepping aside. Spot rolls his eyes at the nickname Frank loves to mock him with and tosses him a nickel as he heads inside.

Spot welcomes the change in energy as he descends the stairs to the speakeasy, relishing the familiar sight of men spread throughout the room. He should’ve realized it would be busier than usual, being a Friday, but the crowd parts for him as it always does as he makes his way to the bar and settles in a chair in the corner. The bartender brings him his usual beer soon after, and he nods gratefully as he takes a long sip.

Maybe drinking will help clear his head. Drinking, and a partner for the night. He isn’t usually one to drink, especially when he’s cruising, but maybe just one to take the edge off isn’t such a bad idea.

He’s had to take the edge off a lot lately.

Not always with liquor — Spot knows more than a few underground bars like this one that work just fine for blowing off steam in one way or another, whether it’s by drinking or cruising or both, and he’s had a considerable uptick in nightcaps since his run-in with Racer those weeks ago.

This one, with no name and no outside indication to anything illicit, is his favorite. Far enough from the lodging house to not cause any trouble, but close enough for him to get to should he have a restless night. He knows the staff, knows the barkeeps and the guards, the regular patrons and even some of the Friday fairies. The basement is comfortable, familiar and inviting in a way the rest of Brooklyn could never be for someone like him.

As he people-watches, his gaze lingers on the men in the darker corners of the bar, settled in the leather chairs with boys on their laps, faces buried in each other’s necks, lips dragging along skin, whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Spot’s occupied those chairs enough times to know he much prefers conducting his business away from prying eyes, but as he watches a man’s hand slide up another’s back to tangle in his hair, he can’t help but wonder what it would be like to take Racetrack Higgins across his lap, vulnerable to the world, shiny and new and eager for everyone to see.

Spot has a sneaking suspicion Race would thrive on knowing he was being watched — the look in his eyes when Spot had told him to grovel in front of all of Brooklyn had certainly indicated as much, and his willingness to let Spot have his way with him in a barely-private back alley hinted towards a penchant for exhibitionism.

Spot takes another long sip of his beer, wishing the alcohol would hit and his mind would focus on something other than Race. Even if there are much worse things than fantasizing about those long legs laid bare and wrapped around his waist, or thinking about what Race might sound like screaming his name, or how his nails would feel scratching down his back.

The bartender catches his eye and nods to his left, and Spot finds himself looking into the eyes of a shoe shiner he’s seen a few times before. Tall, slender, with soft eyes and full lips. Spot stares back, taking in the proposition in front of him as he sips at his beer. He cocks his chin, just slightly, and the boy takes that as an invitation to sit beside him.

He signals to the bartender and the bartender slides another beer across the counter. Spot catches the glass in his hand before it topples over and he offers it with a wordless smirk.

The shoe shiner grins, holding his glass up in a toast before he tips his head back and drinks. Spot’s eyes stay on his throat, watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he drains his glass. The pale column of his throat draws Spot in, makes him want to mark him up, makes him want to wrap his hand around his throat and tighten until —

“You’re staring,” he says lowly, wiping at his mouth as he sets his empty glass on the counter, and Spot grins wide.

“Do you want me to stop staring?”

“You’re Spot Conlon, ain’t ya?” he asks, as though that’s an answer to his question.

It doesn’t take long for Spot to get him out the door after that.

And when he slams him against the bedroom wall, the moan that breaks free only pushes him further. If it’s Spot Conlon he wants, it’s Spot Conlon he’ll get, and it’s with that thought that Spot lets himself loose, lets himself be as rough and as brutal as he’s been itching to be for weeks.

The shoe shiner, whose name Spot had never bothered to learn and couldn’t care less about now, takes it even better than Spot had expected. He follows every command with an eagerness that betrays his masochism, and Spot’s quick to get him on his knees, grip tight on his jaw as he tells him exactly how this night is going to go. His big brown eyes and wet, parted lips make him look young, innocent, wholesome, but when he takes Spot’s cock down his throat, Spot’s grip tight in his hair, his skilled tongue tells a different story.

Spot is far from a selfish lover, and he only lets the poor boy have a taste before he picks him back up and brings him to bed, laying him out and taking his time. Spot may be known for his ruthlessness, but he’s learned that withholding pleasure can become akin to pain, if you push far enough. It isn’t long before the shoe shiner is writhing under him, tongue and teeth pushing him to ruins easily. Spot doesn’t let up until he’s shaking, pleas turned to desperate begging, cock achingly, painfully hard.

“What do you want?” Spot asks.

“Pl-please,” he gasps out, reaching a trembling hand to Spot. “I need it, I can’t, I-”

“What do you _want_ ,” Spot says again, his voice cruel even in his own ears.

“Fuck me, please, Spot-”

“Shut up,” he snaps, and the boy falls quiet, whimpering as Spot grabs the oil and slicks himself up. He stares down at him, so far gone he knows he could truly do _anything_ to him, and takes a second to line himself up. He eases in and the boy groans, low and deep and so full of desperation that Spot can’t help but let his hips snap forward. Any intentions of taking it slow are left behind, and the pace he sets is brutal and punishing as he grips his hips and pushes in deep, no longer focused on anyone’s pleasure but his own. His orgasm is hard-earned, coming only when he closes his eyes and lets himself focus on the sensations overwhelming him, the moans coming from the boy underneath him, and the pink lips he can’t stop picturing.

As Spot lays awake, the shoe shiner beside him dead to the world, bruises on his hips indicative of a night with Spot Conlon like he’d wanted, he can’t help but give into what he’s been desperately trying to avoid all night — Racetrack. How he’d told the boy to shut up because he couldn’t bear the sound of his name falling from lips that weren’t Racer’s. How looking into his eyes — brown, not blue — had been a disappointment every time. How he’d eventually let his eyes close and let his mind run free, conjuring an image of Race splayed out beneath him, face red, tears streaming down his cheeks, legs spread wide and begging Spot for more. How he’d only found release when he’d thought of Race. How, if he’s honest with himself, he’d thought of Racer all night. Wished it was Racer all night.

He slips out the door as the sun breaks over the horizon, leaving the shoe shiner asleep in bed. Spot knows he’ll be asleep for hours more, after last night. He wanders through the streets, letting the shouts of workers rouse him into alertness as he makes his way back to the lodging house, bracing himself for another morning of chaos. He groans aloud at the thought, of working through another day of keeping the younger boys in line and faking a smile just to sell a damn newspaper. He’d almost rather cross the bridge himself, seek out Racetrack and make him pay for being so damn tempting.

Spot stops dead in his tracks, more than a bit horrified at that train of thought. He makes it a well-known fact that he doesn’t set foot in Manhattan, or any other borough, for that matter — if any of the other newsies want something from Brooklyn, they have to come to him, be on his turf, and that’s the way he likes it. He jokes daily that he wouldn’t set foot in Manhattan if someone paid him, and now he’s wishing for it because of Racetrack Higgins?

“Fuck that,” he mutters to himself, not caring about the looks it gets him.

As Spot enters the lodging house, he forces himself to get a grip. He does not pine, he does not fantasize, and he certainly does not do either of those things over a Manhattan newsboy with a lopsided smirk and depthless blue eyes. Racetrack Higgins, as far as he’s concerned, is a fleeting moment in time. One that he’s more than happy to leave behind.

Even if he spends his day bracing himself as he turns every corner, hoping for a glimpse of that cigar dangling from those lips. But Race is nowhere to be found, not that day or the day after, and the sinking disappointment grates at him even as Spot tells himself good riddance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the sex you wanted, I know, but I can't just let them fuck that quickly!!! They will soon though :,) Promise


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Manhattan-Brooklyn rivalry is taken a bit too seriously, and Race pays another visit to Brooklyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I don't want to take up too much space because I have nothing important to say except thank you so much for reading!!! This chapter is a bit longer than usual but it's also one of my favorites, so there is that.
> 
> Also, from the queen of Sprace @amscray_punk herself: "Tbh this chapter makes up for the shoe shiner like. Five times over." Soooooo enjoy :,)

Race has decided to swear off gambling _forever._

Assuming the odds were in his favor has usually worked out pretty well for him. A natural aptitude for numbers and a love of the thrill that comes with winning had made him a bit of a risk-taker, and he’d spent many a night in one of Manhattan’s many illegal gambling dens, placing bets and raking in cash.

He’d decided to take a chance on Jack. Thought maybe he could handle the truth, that it wouldn’t be such a big deal considering Jack’s own history. When he’d come back across the bridge Friday night, much, _much_ later than he’d left, Jack had been worried sick and demanded to know what the hell had happened.

As it turned out, _I’s been walkin’ ‘round in circles for hours tryin’ ta cool off ‘cuz Spot Conlon cornered me in an alley_ was not the response Jack wanted to hear.

After a lecture that must have lasted hours, in which the words _Spot_ and _Conlon_ and _dangerous_ and _Brooklyn_ had been shouted more times than he could keep track, Race had simply stood up and walked out of the room.

“‘Ay, Racer, I ain’t done with you!” Jack had shouted as Race had scaled the fire escape to the roof.

“I needa smoke,” he’d snapped back angrily, and Jack had left him alone.

Race doesn’t normally smoke, despite what most think. He’d started carrying cigars around because he’d thought they’d looked cool, and it had given him something to do with his hands, or to put in his mouth when he knew he’d say something that would get him in trouble. The habit had evolved from there, despite it never keeping him out of trouble like he’d hoped, but he’d never really picked up the actual smoking part. It hurt his chest and made his head hurt enough that it really only happened occasionally, when he was angry or stressed or equally emotional.

Race had stood on that roof, blowing smoke angrily out his nose until his pounding heart had calmed down, staring out at the Manhattan skyline and trying to keep his eyes from wandering to the Brooklyn bridge. Jack hadn’t taken it well, and enough of the younger boys had been not-so-subtly listening outside the door that the whole lodging house had found out by morning. Race stayed up on that rooftop until everyone was asleep, and had slipped out the door before dawn, determined to put off the blow-up that was coming as long as possible.

As Race strolls down the street, hawking the first papers of the day, his mind is elsewhere entirely. Papers are easy enough to sell when you have years of practice and the fortune of a charming smile, and lucky for him, he’s got both, plus outgoing energy to spare.

He lasts a solid few hours before Albert spots him on the corner and heads towards him.

“Racer!”

Race sighs, half-debating turning his back and walking away — today’s been a slow day so far, and he’s still got plenty more papers to sell. But that would only delay the inevitable, so he grits a smile and offers a greeting in return.

“Hey, Al.”

“Race, y’know people are talkin’, right? They’s sayin’ all kinda ‘a crazy shit, like you’s an’ Spot Con-”

Race groans and crosses his arms. “What about me an’ Spot Conlon?”

“They…” Alberts eyes shift from his face to his neck, where Race realizes there are at least a few bruises not covered by his shirt. He shifts his bag to his other shoulder, hoping it’ll cover some of the damage, and Albert snickers.

“So it’s true,” he says. “Wait, that’s not the same-”

“It is,” Race says firmly, wishing he could sink into the grate they’re standing on and disappear into the ground.

“An’ ya didn’t tell me for a whole _month_?!”

“Well ya saw how well Jack took it!” Race defends. “I ain’t aboutta make it a whole thing.”

“Well, now it’s a thing, and Jack is pissed,” Albert says, and Race raises an eyebrow. “Not at you — well, also at you, but — at _Spot._ He’s got half a mind ta go ta Brooklyn himself!”

“If he wants ta be angry at someone, he can be angry at me, not Spot,” Race exclaims, and then ducks under the awning of the nearest building at the looks his elevated volume gets him. “Listen, Al, I know Jackie thinks he’s tough but Spot could beat the shit outta him, and he’s already pissed off from Jack’s last message.”

“He could beat the shit outta you too, that’s the _point_ , Racer!” Race wishes he had a response to that other than _I know that, and I like knowing that._

“Y’know Jackie an’ I ain’t gotta problem with the whole boy thing, but _Brooklyn_? _Spot?_ It’s crossin’ a line, especially for the others, y’know it is.”

“Who cares!” Race shouts. “Who _cares_ about Brooklyn, who cares if they’s on the otha side a’ the bridge, it’s just territory, it don’t matter, I don’t _care._ ”

“Jack cares. I’s care. The other newsies care.” Race rolls his eyes.

“Look, I’s already heard it from Jack, I don’t need it from ya too. It’s my business, no one else’s, an’ if I’s bein’ honest, I just don’t fuckin’ care, Al,” Race snaps. He shoves off the wall he’d been leaning against and starts walking in the opposite direction.

“Tell that to Jack!” Albert calls after him.

“I will,” Race mutters under his breath as he turns the corner and puts on a dazzling smile as he holds out a newspaper.

“Thank ya kindly,” he says to the man who gives him a nickel for it, face returning to a scowl as soon as he turns away.

The rest of the day passes in much the same manner — papers sell themselves, albeit slowly, and he finds himself ducking into stores to avoid talking to any of the other newsies he passes, even as he tells himself how idiotic it is to hide from his friends over Spot Conlon of all people.

It’s not like it’s anything to worry about, after all. He knows some of the others, the younger ones especially, take the Manhattan-Brooklyn rivalry seriously, but at the end of the day, Racetrack Higgins and Spot Conlon are really the least of anyone’s concerns.

Even if the rumors about Spot Conlon are, as it turns out, extremely promising in their truth.

So promising that he spends the rest of the day fantasizing about turning up on Spot Conlon’s doorstep and getting on his knees for him right there, in front of whoever else is there, Brooklyn be damned.

When Race turns up at the lodging house that evening, more than ready to call it a night and turn in early, he finds Jack sitting on his bed.

“Ugh, Jack, what,” he groans. “This is stupid.”

Jack holds up his hands in surrender, and Race narrows his eyes as he sits down next to him.

“Unless you’s here to apologize, why don’t you’s go up to ya penthouse,” he says, with a bit more hostility than is probably called for.

“Racer, I’s sorry,” Jack says, and Race laughs humorlessly.

“Now ya say it.”

“Really. I may not…. get it, but you’s right, it ain’t my business. It’s just…. Y’know, Spot has a rep, an’ you…. ya ain’t very experienced, and I-”

Race stands up suddenly, wrapping his arms around himself as he takes to pacing the narrow length of the room.

“Yeah, I’s aware, Jack, thanks so much,” he snaps, face flushing as Jack backtracks.

“I mean, it’s not, y’know it’s not that, it’s just, Spot an’ you, it ain’t equal. I don’t want him ta hurt ya is all.”

Race huffs a laugh and cracks his neck, letting his bruised neck stand on prominent display for Jack to see.

“Maybe I’s don’t care about that,” he says. “Maybe I’s like it.”

“Racer…”

“No, shut up an’ listen, Jackie. You an’ I kissed one time, an’ we was so nervous it made us both more confused. It took me months ta be sure a’ myself after that, an’ I know it wasn’t easy for ya either. But I’s more experienced than ya think, even if I ain’t... “ Race feels his face heat and forces himself to finish his sentence, even as he lowers his voice to a bare whisper, “... even if I ain’t been with anyone like that, I’s still know what I’s doin’.”

Jack signs and lets his head rest in his hands. “Okay,” he says finally, and Race crosses his arms.

“Okay?”

“I believe you, even if ya judgment can, uh, be wrong sometimes. I’s just don’t know what this means for us, y’know?”

“It don’t mean anythin’, for anyone or anythin’ else. Not for Manhattan, not for Brooklyn, not for the newsies or us or anythin’ else. It’s between me an’ Spot, and it ain’t serious, it’s just… I dunno, Jack, it…” He bites his lip, struggling to find the words to explain what, exactly, it is that lingers between him and Spot.

“It’s dangerous,” he decides on finally. “Not in a bad way, it’s… bein’ in a room with Spot, it feels like I’s on fire. In a good way. I’s never felt that way before.”

“Sounds like more than sex to me,” Jack says questioningly.

“No! No, it’s not, it’s… I’s drawn to him because he’s good at makin’ me feel things,” he says helplessly, entirely unsure how to explain Spot’s pull.

At Jack’s disbelief, he clarifies, “ _Physical_ things, Jack.”

“Ah, ‘kay, he makes ya hard an’ you’s like it?”

“Shut up,” he says, rolling his eyes, even if he knows as well as Jack does how spot-on that is.

Jack stands from his bed and looks Race in the eye. “Look, Racer, I promise I’ll stay outta ya business, but I can’t say the same for the rest ‘a the guys. Most ‘a them ain’t too thrilled, an’ I can’t blame ‘em, ya know?”

“I know,” Race mutters, scratching at the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I’s just don’t get why it’s such a big deal. ‘S stupid.”

“It’s just how it is, I guess,” Jack shrugs.

“I guess,” Race grumbles.

Jack pats him on the shoulder and turns to leave. “Hopefully it’ll blow over soon, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Race agrees.

It doesn’t.

Race definitely doesn’t help the situation by going back to Brooklyn as soon as he gets the chance, but, as he’s been insisting, he really just doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care when he catches Specs’ eye as he makes his way towards what can only be the Brooklyn Bridge, and he doesn’t care when he passes Myron in the park and gets what he assumes is meant to be an intimidating stare down, and he definitely doesn’t care once he sets his sights on Spot in that same bar and takes the liberty of occupying the empty seat across the table from him.

Spot sets down his glass, barely drained, and leans back in his seat.

“Ta what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks.

Race grins and takes his cigar out of his mouth long enough to say, “I think I’s the one who owes you pleasure.”

That’s enough to get narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw out of Spot.

And if Race taps the cigar against his lips, it’s definitely not to draw attention to them as he runs his tongue along his lower lip. Because that would be unfair.

Spot takes a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, and cocks his head. “Ya think so?”

“I know so, Spotty.”

“Call me Spotty again, I’ll make you regret it,” Spot snaps.

Race grins. “That a promise?”

 _That_ gets him slammed against the wall in the back hallway.

“What, no alley?” he asks.

“Shut up,” Spot breathes. “You’s causin’ me a lotta problems.”

“Sorry,” Race says, although he has no idea what problems he could possibly be causing, unless Brooklyn newsies are as anal about him being Manhattan as his newsies are about Spot being Brooklyn. “You’s Spot Conlon though, does it really matter? Can’t ya just do whatever ya want?”

“An’ what exactly is it that ya think I want?”

“Well, I am pinned against this wall, so…”

“Maybe I’s just like seein’ ya squirm.”

“You’s gonna have to pin my wrists tighter 'an that,” Race whispers.

“Ya gotta thing for pain, huh?” Spot asks, taking a step back to take Race in. Race knows how he must look, coming to Brooklyn and seeking Spot out. If Spot didn’t have such a satisfied look in his eyes, he’d almost be embarrassed. But Spot takes him by the wrist and drags him down the hall, opening a door Race hadn’t noticed before and shoving him inside.

As Spot closes the door and yanks the chain connected to the light, Race squints into the dim room and realizes quickly that Spot’s dragged him into what looks like a supply closet.

“Fancy,” Race says appreciatively. “Ooooh, look! Absinthe!”

Spot rolls his eyes. “Ya couldn’t handle absinthe, I’s promise.”

Race pouts and grabs the bottle, holding it up to the weak, flickering light to examine the label.

“Yeah, maybe not,” he agrees after reading the label, placing it gently back on the shelf.

Spot snorts and takes a step closer to him. Race leans back against the shelf and crosses one ankle over the other and grins.

“Are ya shakin'?” Spot asks, brow raised, and Race blushes. He _is_ , damn him.

“You’s really new, ain’t ya?” Spot asks. “How’d ya learn ta kiss like that, then?”

Race lets the implied compliment steady him. “I’s told ya, I ain’t that new. Just ‘cuz I ain’t been with guys doesn’t mean I ain’t been with anyone.”

Spot seems surprised at that. “Ya like girls too, Higgins?”

Race shrugs. “I said I’s been with them, I didn’t say they’s for me.”

Spot nods in understanding and tilts his head as he watches Race.

“So,” he says, cocky smirking turning into a sadistic smile. “How ya feelin’?”

“Pretty lucky to be in a closet with Spot Conlon, I s’pose,” Race says airily. “Although I’s heard it ain’t that hard to wind up here, is it?”

“Ya betta watch ya mouth, Racer,” Spot says, voice dangerously low. “Careful what you’s imply ‘bout me.”

“Nah, I don’t think I will,” Race grins.

“So, I’s right then,” Spot says, sliding a hand up Racer’s arm to rest on his shoulder. “Ya like pain and then some, huh?”

“Why don’t you’s find ou-” Spot cuts Race off with a hand on his throat, squeezing tight enough that Race is left gasping for air as Spot examines him coldly.

“Ya talk too much,” he says calmly, even as his grip tightens. “An’ I got a betta use for that mouth than you’s runnin’ it all day, yeah?”

Race nods automatically, taking in Spot’s expression. There’s no mercy in those eyes, not a drop.

Spot releases his grip even as his hand stays on Race’s throat, running a thumb along his Adam’s apple as Race gasps for breath. Every touch, every tense breath between them makes Race’s heart beat faster, and as Spot presses Race harder into the rough edges of the shelf, he can’t help but feel a bit like a canary in a coal mine.

“What are ya gonna do to me?” he finds himself asking as Spot adjusts his grip on his throat to tilt his head roughly to the side, examining the trail of bruises on his neck, faded to yellow but still visible.

“Whatever I want,” Spot says. Race bites at his lip in anticipation, and Spot moves his hand to grip Race’s jaw, brushing a thumb along Race’s bottom lip.

“These lips,” Spot breathes, “is gonna kill me.”

Race laughs shakily, suddenly extremely aware of Spot’s hands, one still cupping his jaw and the other creeping its way up his side. Race reaches out and pulls Spot closer, twisting his hand in Spot’s shirt and leaning in until Spot’s lips are nearly touching his.

“Why don’t ya do somethin’ about it,” he whispers, and Spot closes the distance between them, bringing both hands to cup Race’s jaw as his tongue swipes along Race’s lips. Race opens his mouth with a low moan, pressing eagerly into Spot as Spot’s hand moves to cradle the back of his head and his tongue slips into his mouth.

When Spot breaks away Race is left breathing heavily, chest heaving and lips swollen. Spot reaches a hand down and grabs at the front of his pants, and Race lets out a sharp gasp.

“Fuck, Spot,” Race groans as Spot’s fingers grip him tightly. “I, you’s just... oh God,” he whimpers, and Spot squeezes slightly. Race lets his head fall back against the shelf, not even caring at the sharp pain it sends through him.

“Hard already?” Spot asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I barely kissed you an’ you’s achin’ for it, ain’t that cute.”

Race can only nod, sensation too overwhelming for him to muster a playful response.

“Feel good?” Spot asks, and Race nods quickly. “Use your words, Racer, unless that’s too hard for you.”

“Yes, _yes_ , fuck, it feels really good, okay?”

“Good,” Spot says sharply, reaching a hand inside Racer’s pants and toying with his cock. Race lets out a gasp that turns into a broken moan, Spot’s tight grip making his knees weak.

Spot’s hand continues its slow, teasing pace, even as Race pulls harder on Spot’s shirt. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t change his rhythm, letting Racer’s own body do the work for him as he falls apart under Spot’s careful watch.

“Whaddya think ya little Manhattan buddies would think of ya if they could see ya now?” Spot asks, and Race’s eyes snap open. Spot smirks at him, still working him easily, naturally, like he could do it in his sleep. “Think they’d be proud ‘a you?”

“I… God, f- fuck, Spot, don’t stop, I’s close,” Race gasps, hips jerking against Spot’s fist. Spot’s other hand comes to grip his hip tightly, holding him firmly against the shelf.

“I think so,” he continues, voice calm, like he isn’t working Race into a frenzy in a supply closet in a bar on Brooklyn turf. “I think ya look fuckin’ gorgeous like this, Race. Turns out Manhattan’s got some newsies worth lookin’ at after all.”

“Ya think I’s gorgeous?” Race asks, sarcasm coming naturally even as Spot’s hand draws him closer and closer.

“I think ya look downright sinful,” Spot growls, fist tightening around Race’s cock. “Those innocent blue eyes and filthy lips? Ya lettin’ me take control, lettin’ me be the first one ta touch you an’ make ya come in a closet like a whore? You’s filthy, Racer.”

Race’s hands grab desperately at Spot’s shoulders as he talks, letting the words wash over him. And when Spot brushes his lips over his neck and bites down, hard, his knees buckle and he comes with a shout, clinging to Spot as his body rocks with the force of it. Spot brushes a thumb over his tip, not letting up for a second as Racer moans loudly, nails digging into Spot’s back as his orgasm rolls through him. Spot’s hand doesn’t stop, even when Race’s body gives out entirely, even when the feeling of Spot’s hand on his cock turns from pleasure to pain, even when his teeth in his neck become too much to handle, Spot keeps going. Race’s cries of pleasure grow louder as his orgasm slows, and he looks at Spot pleadingly.

“Spotty, I can’t,” he whimpers, flinching as Spot’s grip tightens near imperceptibly.

“I ain’t done with ya yet,” Spot says simply. Race’s nails dig deeper into Spot’s shoulder and Spot grins as Race slams his head back against the shelf as he moans in pain.

“Spot, I, please-”

“If ya want me ta stop, tell me, an’ I will. Otherwise, ya betta shut ya mouth an’ be grateful,” Spot snaps. Race closes his mouth and sinks against the shelf, letting the pain of the sharp shelf edges and Spot’s fingers digging into his hip distract him from the aching pleasure of Spot wringing another orgasm from his body as he comes again, biting his lip to keep the shout from ripping free and giving them away.

He doesn’t know how much time passes that he spends standing there, Spot the only thing in the world keeping him upright, but his vision is swimming and his ears are ringing and when he finally leans back against the shelf, sated, lazy smile on his face, Spot is staring at him with something like awe in his expression.

“What?” he asks, and Spot shakes his head, looking down at the floor. When he looks back up, his eyes are harder.

“Ya good?” Spot asks. His hand is still gripping Race’s waist tightly, and Race lets himself lean into it even as he straightens his spine.

“Mmhm,” he says, not quite trusting his mouth right now. Spot lets him gather himself, watching intently as he always does, Race has learned, eyes constantly taking in every aspect of his surroundings. Race winces as his cock brushes against the fabric of his pants, sore and aching from Spot’s handiwork.

“That… that was…” He curses his brain for not catching up, but really, as Spot stares him down, he can’t help but prefer this state of mind — his mind is blissfully fuzzy, body still tingling with aftershocks, and all he really wants to do is sink to his knees and return the favor.

“There’s a lot more where that came from,” Spot promises, and Race frowns.

“That makes it sound like you’s done wit’ me for now,” he says. “I ain’t done wit’ you, though.”

Spot arches his eyebrows and looks at Race, amused. “Oh yeah?”

Race pushes off the shelf and grabs Spot in a deep kiss, walking him backwards until his back hits the opposite wall. Given his height, it’s easy enough, but he hadn’t banked on Spot’s strength, and it’s only seconds later that Spot spins him around and presses him up against the wall, face first, and presses up behind him. Race lets out as a gasp at the feeling of Spot pressed against him, the confirmation that Spot likes this just as much as he does.

Spot leans in to whisper in his ear. “Don’t get too greedy, Racer. We go at my pace, we play by my rules. You’s in Brooklyn, don’t forget that.”

He stays pressed against him, even as Racer’s cheek digs into the peeling paint of the wall, for what feels like eternity, and Race lets himself revel in the feeling of Spot flush against him, cock digging into the small of his back irrefutable proof of just how much Spot likes making him moan.

When Spot pulls away, Race turns around, face flushed, and finds Spot staring at him as if calculating something.

“So? Ya done with me, or..?”

“No, I ain’t,” Spot says decisively. Race is starting to get the feeling he should be a bit worried about what that might mean, but he finds the only thing he feels is an aching pulse run straight through him.

“You’s comin’ with me,” he says, and opens the door. Race squints as daylight and the sounds of the bar come rushing in, flooding the intimate space they’d created.

“Where?” he asks, following Spot out into the hallway and through the back door into the same alley he’d been cornered in only a few days ago.

“You’s gonna find out,” Spot says, and when he turns to look back at Race, there’s a look Race has never seen before on his face — excitement. “Come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where could they possibly be going!!!! Stay tuned to find out :DDD


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a second, hello! I am in the hellish part of my semester and will be for most of this month, so updates might be a bit more sporadic, but I always make sure to have several chapters ahead banked so it should hopefully be steady through the end of this semester!! As always, enjoy!

Spot doesn’t exactly know what he’s thinking as he guides Race deeper into the back streets of Brooklyn Heights, nearly into Fulton Ferry. The location of the Brooklyn newsboy lodging house is a mystery to any and all outsiders — Spot had made sure of that. Taking Racer straight to it, even if it’s deserted in the middle of the day, is a decision he knows will most likely come to bite him in the ass. But, as he’s been recently reminded by Race, he’s Spot Conlon. He can do whatever he wants.

Even if what he wants and what he _should_ want are getting further and further apart.

Spot nearly debates walking right past it, pretending it doesn’t exist and taking Race to a bar only a few minutes past, but he wants privacy. He wants to take his time.

He wants to hear what Racer sounds like when he isn’t biting his lip to stay quiet in a supply closet.

Spot jogs up the few steps to the door, pushing it open and gesturing for Race to follow. Race stands outside, staring up at the building, recognition dawning on his face as he realizes exactly where Spot’s taken him.

“Hang on,” he starts in disbelief.

“Come on, Racer,” Spot says impatiently, daring a glance up the street. No one’s on the block, like he’d assumed, but it’s nearing midday and he’d rather not get caught letting a Manhattan newsie into their house.

“You’s live here? You’s lettin’ me come inside?” he asks, grin spread wide on his face as he follows Spot up the stairs and turns around to examine the street. “Nice place,” he says, tipping his cap to Spot in mockery before he slips inside the door. Spot sighs, shutting the door quietly as he follows Race inside.

Race takes no time making himself at home, walking down the slightly sloping hallway like he owns the place as he takes in the peeling paint and orderly chaos of the house. Spot starts up the stairs, and reaches over the banister to rap Race on the head.

“Hey!”

“C’mon,” he says in response, and Race grins up at him as he backtracks and follows him up the stairs.

The lodging house is narrow, with ten floors and rickety stairs that get more and more precarious the higher you climb. He can hear Race’s exasperated sighs when he makes a landing and carries on to the next one, all the way up to the top.

“Jesus, Spotty, ya makin’ me work for it,” Race jokes.

“Perks a' bein’ king a' Brooklyn, ya get ya own room. Downside, it’s at the top,” Spot explains. Race’s eyes narrow and then widen as he catches the implications of Spot bringing him to his room, at the top of the stairs, where no one else would dare interrupt what must go on behind closed doors.

Finally, Spot ascends the final set of stairs, to the room he’d fought for, and opens the door.

The bed, shoved against the wall, a few pillows and threadbare blankets piled high on the foot of the bed, takes up the majority of the space. Originally the attic, he’d claimed it the same night he’d claimed Brooklyn, fixing it up and making it nice all on his own.

“‘S real nice,” Race says, and normally Spot would punch anyone who said anything like that, but he can tell Race actually means it. He’s learned enough about the Manhattan newsies to know they sleep around four to a room, and he supposes his own room is a luxury Race is rather unfamiliar with. From how Race has made it sound, he’s barely ever had privacy with a boy before.

Spot shuts the door and locks it with a _click_.

Race leans coyly against the wall. “If ya can get me off in a supply closet, what exactly d’ya have planned that ya need privacy for?”

Spot shakes his head as he leans against the wall next to Race. “Ya really are shameless, aren’t ya?”

Race grins and nods. “Yep.”

Spot smiles back. “Good. Sit.” He points to the bed and Race happily obliges, sitting down and crossing his legs easily.

“I wanna talk,” Spot says. Race blinks at him, confusion evident on his face.

“Not just talk, I hope,” he answers after a beat, and Spot shakes his head.

“No,” he agrees. “Definitely not. I just gotta know some things, before we… before this goes any further.”

“O...kay?”

Spot crosses the few feet to stand directly in front of Race, planting his feet on the hardwood and staring down into his eyes. The way Race looks up at him, even now, during a normal conversation, is enough to send a rush of power through him.

“Ya gotta be honest with me, ‘kay?”

Race nods, concern in his eyes. “Of course,” he says softly.

“You’s ain’t neva been with any boys,” he starts, and Race flushes easily, shaking his head as he averts his eyes to his hands, folding in his lap. “What about girls?” Spot asks gently.

“I’s ain’t neva had sex, Spotty, if that’s what you’s askin’,” he says sharply.

Spot sighs, lets himself soften just slightly. “I ain’t askin’ ‘cuz I think any less of you’s for it,” he says firmly, reaching out and tilting Race’s head to look at him. “I’s askin’ ‘cuz I need ta know if you’s know whatcha gettin’ into, with me. Okay?”

Race nods, resting his head on Spot’s palm. That small act of tenderness, of trust, makes him forget himself for a moment. It’s only when Race clears his throat that Spot continues.

“Obviously ya like boys,” he says, and Race snorts.

“Obviously,” he says, in a weak imitation of Spot’s voice.

“And you’s don’t seem ta care too much ‘bout what people think about that. Or about me.”

Race hesitates at that. “I… I don’ care what the Manhattan newsies think, they’s stupid, it-”

“Not the newsies,” Spot clarifies. “Manhattan. New York. The world. Most folks want us dead, the ones who don’t barely tolerate us s’long as we ain’t _public_ about it. You’s keep messin’ with me, people are gonna talk. Are you okay with that?”

“Does that mean ya wanna keep foolin’ around?” Race asks brightly, and gives Spot an exaggerated wink.

“Racer, people stay away from me ‘cuz they know I’ll kick their asses if they try anything. But you…” He lets his hand slide down Racer’s arm — lean with muscle, but still thin enough he can wrap his hand entirely around his bicep. “You’s breakable. An’ folks out there won’t think twice before kickin' ya half ta death in an alley somewhere, if they’s get the chance.” He's seen it happen. Seen _worse_ than it happen.

Race blinks up at him, coyness gone, processing what Spot tells him. “I… Why’s anyone hafta know? Can’t we just keep doin’ what we’s doin’?”

“Racer, I don’t think ya get it. People’s seen us at the bar. They know me, an’ if we’s keep this up, they’ll know ya too. We ain’t exactly subtle, believe it or not. ‘Specially not with ya walkin’ around displaying those bruises like a goddamn prize.”

Race’s lips press into a line as he takes in Spot’s words, crossing his arms tightly. “I dunno what ya want me ta say. I ain’t interested in just hidin’ forever, I ain’t gonna do that. Can’t we’s just stay in here?” he asks, reaching an arm out and wrapping it around Spot’s waist. He pulls Spot in tighter and rests his chin on Spot’s navel, looking up at him with those big blue eyes.

“I wanna pay ya back for the closet, Spotty,” he whispers softly, running a hand up Spot’s ass. Spot lets himself enjoy it, for a moment, before he extracts himself from Racer’s grip.

“We’s gotta talk, Race. For real,” he says seriously, as much of a reminder to himself as it is to Race.

“We already talked, I wanna stop talkin’ for a while,” Race pouts.

“Listen, Racer. Ya… Ya gotta hear me out, ‘kay?”

Race looks at him expectantly.

“You know I ain’t nice. But ya also ain’t experienced, and I’m not saying that ta be mean,” he says quickly at the look on Racer’s face, “I’s sayin’ it ‘cuz it’s important. I ain’t nice. I ain’t honorable, or gentle, or soft, or any of the things ya friends you’s been with are. I won’t be kind. I’s made plenty a boys cry. Worse than cry. Ya really have no idea what you’s in for, an’ so I’s wanna give you that out. Because I may be a lotta things, but I won’t neva do anythin’ you don’t want.”

Race’s eyes are wide as he takes in Spot’s words, and Spot almost thinks he might have ruined whatever it is between them when Race smiles. “You’s say ya ain’t honorable, but tellin’ me all that was pretty honorable, don’t you’s think?”

Spot blinks.

“It don’t matter, anyways, Spot. I already knew all that. I’s heard the stories, I know what you’s like. I want it,” he says, voice dipping at the last sentence, even as he looks up at Spot through those long, long lashes.

“I wanna know what Spot Conlon’s really like,” Race says, reaching for him once again. “Show me just how bad it can hurt,” he whispers. He barely dips his hand into Spot’s waistband when Spot grabs his wrist and yanks it away roughly.

“Racer, not yet. I know ya wanna fuck but frankly, ya ain’t ready.”

“Why d’ya even care? I thought ya whole thing was not caring,” Race blurts out.

Spot’s eyes narrow. “I can not care, if that’s what ya want,” he says, voice low. “I can flip ya over and take ya here and now, on my terms, how I want, without a care in the world for whether ya feel good or not.”

Race pales, apprehension making his eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. Spot has to admit, even if he’s bluffing, watching Race stare at him with such fear, eyes darting to his wrist still in Spot’s grasp, is a gorgeous thing to behold. “No,” Race whispers. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Ya startin’ ta get it now, Higgins?” Spot asks, quietly but with venom in his voice. “I’s don’t play games. If ya thought you were different, you’s just gonna get hurt.”

He lets go of Racer’s wrist and Race stares at him. “I…”

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Spot says, even if he hates himself for it. He takes a step back and goes to unlock the door.

“No!” Race exclaims. “Wait, just—”

“D’ya wanna get hurt, Racer? Huh?” Spot asks, staring at him in demand.

“I- maybe, I dunno, I- maybe?”

“Maybe?” Spot weighs his next words, the question he’s been dying to ask. “Do you like pain, Racer?”

Race’s brow furrows and he bites his lip, stalling. “Like, as in…”

“Sexually.”

“I… I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I… I know it’s not- y’know, normal, ya don’t think I know that? I knows it, okay? I knew it when Jack was too nice and I’s knew it again when you’s weren’t.”

“It ain’t a bad thing Racer,” Spot says, choosing his words very carefully. “Normal is whatever ya want. Hell, ‘ccordin’ to the world, we ain’t normal just ‘cuz we’s like men.”

Race nods at that, looking a bit relieved, and Spot sits down next to him on the bed, letting himself meet Racer at eye level.

“If you’s want, I can… there are things I can do, durin’ sex, that will hurt. A lot. And if ya want it, I’ll do it, and I won’t even pretend like I’s don’t get off on it, ‘cuz I’s do. I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t wanna make you’s cry and beg for mercy, ‘cuz I’s do. An’ then some. Ya may be a lotta things, Racer, but normal ain’t one ‘a them, and ya never gotta pretend for me.”

Race’s expression changes very suddenly and Spot panics, wondering if maybe he’s misread the situation entirely before Race leans over and kisses him. The kiss isn’t gentle, and Race wastes no time in letting Spot know his response as his hands grab at Spot’s suspenders and push them off his shoulders.

“Patience,” Spot says, placing a halting hand on Race’s chest, “is a virtue, Higgins.”

“I ain’t neva been one for patience,” Race says breathlessly, laughing. He lets Spot lay him down, sliding across the bed and staring up at Spot with wide eyes as he hovers over him.

“Ya don’t like ta hurt people, do ya Higgins? Not in bed, at least,” he says, making quick work of the buttons of Racer’s shirt. Luckily, Race had forgone his usual layers in the summer heat today, and without his vest, Spot has easy access to the bare skin underneath.

“No,” Race whispers. “I’s don’t.”

“Mmhm,” Spot says, pressing a whisper of a kiss to Race’s neck before he starts his way down to his chest. Race’s breath catches in his throat, and Spot once again revels in the knowledge that no other man has had Racer this way.

“You’d like it if I hurt you though?” he asks, and his teeth graze Race’s nipple lightly. “Just a little bit?”

Race moans loudly, hands jerking up to rest on the back of Spot’s neck. Spot looks up at him, nearly moaning at the sight of those wide, innocent eyes hooded with lust.

“Please, Spot.”

“Please what?” he asks.

“I want ya to hurt me,” Race whispers, and the lack of hesitation makes Spot’s blood thrum.

“Don’t worry, Racer,” he breathes, pressing a biting kiss to Race’s chest. Race gasps at the sensation, teeth and tongue making quick work of his pale skin, leaving a light red mark just below his collarbone. “I’s gonna take care ‘a you.”

“When do I get ta take care ‘a you?” Race asks, even as Spot continues downward, biting lightly as he goes, and Race’s back arches up against the bed.

“Later,” Spot says. “If I’s got Racetrack Higgins in my bed, I’s gonna take my time.”

Race laughs at that, leaning up to rest on his elbows. “Ya make it sound like you’s been waitin’ ta do this.”

“Since that alley,” Spot confirms. “Ya gotta habit ‘a gettin’ in my head, Racer. I intend ta repay the favor.”

He bites down hard on soft skin, sucking a bruise easily onto Race’s navel. Race mumbles a curse, hand tightening in Spot’s hair.

“Spotty, you’s already in my head,” Race breathes. “Why d’ya think I came today?”

“Ya came quite a bit today, huh?” Spot laughs, bringing a hand to Race’s bulge. He squeezes harshly, and Race gasps out a cry.

“Spot, fuck,” Race moans, hips jerking away from his hand. Spot’s grip doesn’t budge, and he squeezes tighter as Race squirms beneath him.

“I dunno if ya know this, but our bodies ain’t exactly built ta come that much at once, Racer,” Spot says slowly, deliberately. “So we’s gonna make ya come again, okay?”

“I thought you was gonna hurt me,” Race gasps, hips grinding against Spot’s hand.

“Oh, trust me,” Spot chuckles, making quick work of his suspenders and pulling his pants over his hips. “This is gonna hurt.”

He leans forward and takes Race’s cock down his throat in one swift move, making sure Race feels it when his teeth graze his shaft just slightly. Race _yells_ , hips bucking wildly, and Spot readjusts himself to pin his hips to the bed. Spot makes easy work of him, bringing his cock to full hardness in minutes, even as Race continues to tremble and shudder beneath him, brutal grip on his hair. Spot pulls off and wraps a hand around the base, giving Race no reprieve as he talks.

“Overstimulation, I’s found,” Spot drawls, “can be one ‘a the most painful things. Ya body can’t help but respond, but you’s ain’t gonna feel good.”

“Spot, Spot, Spot, Jesus _fuck_ ,” Race groans, legs shaking as Spot continues to work him. “I- aaah, oh God, fuck!”

“You’s a bit talkative, huh?” he asks, grinning at him. He lowers his head to wrap his lips around the tip, tongue slipping into the slit he knows will be overly sensitive. Race’s moans break off with a cry, and Spot redoubles his efforts as Race begins to shake.

“Look at that,” Spot teases, voice full of condescension. “You’s gonna come already? Bit embarrassing if ya ask me, I’s only barely started touchin’ you.”

Race laughs, smile on his face even as he whines with need and trembles with pain, and Spot swipes his thumb across the tip of his cock mercilessly, watching as that simple action renders Race speechless.

“So that’s what shuts you up, huh?” Spot asks, laughing softly. Race moans, but can’t form words. “Good ta know.” He lowers his mouth to him once again, and hollows his cheeks until Race is arching off the bed, shout dying in his throat as he comes, orgasm painful and overwhelming in a way Spot doesn’t envy. He swallows him easily, focusing on the sensation of Race’s cock pulsing in his mouth, and sucks off with a _pop_ that makes Race gasp shakily.

“Oh fuck,” Race moans brokenly a few minutes later, once he’s regained the ability to speak.

Spot grins, a carnal and deadly thing. “That’s the idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorite chapters to write!! I hope you all liked it <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for this chapter it is just smut. Enjoy!

Racer knows he and Spot have only been fooling around for a week or two, but he really thinks that the satisfying sound of the click of the lock on Spot’s bedroom door will never get old.

Race reaches for Spot hungrily, glad to escape Manhattan and let himself get tangled in Spot Conlon, even if only for one night. The nights he doesn’t make it to Brooklyn are because he’s usually too exhausted from working or too distracted by his friends to bother making the trek, but every time he does, he’s reminded of just how worth it crossing the bridge is.

Spot laughs at Race’s eagerness, grabbing his wrists and holding him steady. Race whines softly, leaning in for another kiss, which Spot obliges. As marked up as Spot enjoys making Race, Race has found he has a fondness for the way Spot’s neck looks with bruises too. He busies himself with biting a trail from that sensitive spot behind his ear to his collarbone, and Spot lets out a small sigh through his nose that Race has come to learn means he’s trying not to moan outright.

Spot still hasn’t let Race touch him, and Race is starting to think it might be more than a coincidence. Spot likes to tease him for being relatively inexperienced, sure, but he’d like to think he’s proven he’s a fast learner with a talented mouth. He says as much before Spot can get his clothes off and lay him out on the bed — he’s found that once Spot has him like that, he’s not much for protest.

“Are ya gonna let me repay all ya _favors_ any time soon?” Race asks, and Spot stills where he stands, eyes narrowing as he catches Racer’s meaning.

“Ya wanna learn how to suck cock, Higgins?”

Race licks his lips and nods, stupid grin that always comes when Spot gets vulgar gracing his face. Spot studies him for a second, and Race shivers under his gaze.

“On your knees, then,” Spot commands, and Race blinks at him for a second before he obeys, sinking to his knees on the uneven hardwood floor. He looks up at Spot questioningly, unsure what comes next.

“Fuck, I shoulda got ya on ya knees ages ago, Higgins,” Spot says, staring down at him, gleam in those dark eyes that sends chills up Racer’s spine. “Ya look…”

Race bites his lip and blinks up at Spot, playing up that innocence he knows gets Spot hard. “Angelic?”

“Corrupted,” Spot says instead, and Race’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Oh,” he responds, not quite knowing what to say. _Corrupted_ sounds downright sinful coming from Spot’s mouth as he looms over him, larger than life, and maybe it is — maybe what they’re doing _is_ sinful, in all the right ways. Maybe Spot’s just as dangerous as everyone says — maybe Race truly is just the next boy in line. Race would be lying if he didn’t get off on knowing Spot could crush his windpipe as easily as he could kiss him.

As Spot’s hand moves to the front of his pants, Race thinks maybe being corrupted by the king of Brooklyn isn’t the worst thing in the world. And when he pulls his cock out from the waistband, Race stops thinking entirely.

“Like what ya see?” Spot asks with a smirk.

Race hadn’t realized his mouth had opened on instinct until he closed it suddenly, and nodded.

“I… You’s gorgeous, Spot.” The words leave his mouth before he can even think them through, but even if he curses himself for it immediately, he knows it’s true. Spot looks like a god, and Race feels like a worshipper before him, small and insignificant in the face of something bigger than himself.

He rises up on his knees as Spot steps closer, stroking himself as Race watches, captivated. Seeing Spot Conlon pleasure himself is not something he imagines most people get to see.

“You’s ain’t never sucked dick before, huh?” Spot asks, and Race flushes as he always does when Spot brings up his lack of experience, even if it makes him ache every time Spot reminds him just how much he has to learn.

“Honored to be your first,” Spot says, smirk turning into a grin. He brings a hand to the back of Racer’s head, pulling him forward, and Race licks his lips in anticipation.

“You’s gonna wanna open ya throat as much as ya can, ‘kay? Breathe through ya nose, an’ don’t choke on me. Yet.” Race nods and brings his lips to the tip of Spot’s cock, brow furrowing as he figures out exactly what he’s doing. He’s thought about it, sure, but thinking and doing, as he’s learning, are two entirely different things, and Spot… well, he hadn’t realized just how big Spot is.

Spot solves the problem for him by guiding his head forward, and Race opens wide as he lets Spot into his mouth. His eyes close instinctively, and he tries not to gasp at the sensation as Spot fills his throat.

“Breathe,” Spot reminds him, and he does, breathing in through his nose as Spot goes deeper, nearly making him gag before pulling back.

“Good,” Spot says, tightening his grip in his hair. “Again,” he says, barely giving Race the chance to catch his breath before he presses in again, going deeper this time. Race moans in surprise and Spot curses under his breath, hand twisting is his curls. Race grins and Spot hisses, “Teeth, Racer.” Race pulls off, mumbling apologies and wiping at his mouth.

Spot shakes his head. “Don’ worry, just keep doin’ what you’s doin’,” he says, voice rough, and Race nods before opening his mouth for him again.

Spot lets him go slow, at first, and Race relishes the sensation of the slow glide of Spot’s cock on his tongue, the way it fills his throat so wholly, the quiet murmurs of guidance and appreciation Spot gives him. Race leans forward on his knees, bringing a hand to Spot’s waist and the other to cup his ass, hands roaming freely as Spot keeps a tight grip on his hair and his jaw.

“Fuck, Racer,” Spot groans. Knowing he’s the reason Spot’s voice sounds so wrecked encourages Race to press forward, taking Spot as far as he can handle. His nose just brushes Spot’s navel before he has to pull off, coughing from the exertion.

Spot lets him breathe for a moment before he taps his cheek, and Race looks up at him, breathing ragged, before his eyes are drawn again to Spot’s cock, fully hard now and aching to be touched.

“Can I..?” Race asks hesitantly, and Spot smirks at him.

“Just one taste and ya can’t get enough?”

“Sounds like somethin’ I should be sayin’ to you, since you’s the one who’s tasted me the most,” Race says with a grin, and Spot’s eyes narrow even as he smiles.

“An’ this is why I’s wanna shut you up,” he says, shaking his head.

“Do it then,” Race breathes, eyes still on Spot’s cock. Spot laughs and grabs him by the hair again.

“Of course, I should’ve known,” Spot drawls, dragging Race forward and forcing his cock down his throat. Race’s eyes water but he opens his throat as best he can, hollowing his cheeks like Spot had told him to.

“You’s ain’t interested in slow, you’s just want me to take what I’s want. Ain’t that right, Racer? Ya just want me to fuck ya throat an’ make you my bitch, huh?”

Race’s eyes snap open at that, at the abandon in his voice and in the snap of his hips, thrusts brutal as he holds Race’s head in place. He’s never heard Spot like this before, and he’s starting to realize Spot’s been holding him at arms’ length this whole time — Spot, without an iron grip on his self-control, is entirely new to him.

Race licks at the underside of Spot’s cock and moans around him again, wondering what it will take to get Spot’s grip on his control to slip completely. Even as he struggles to breathe, to keep his mouth open and teeth hidden, he revels in it, in the discomfort in his jaw and the ache in his knees that means Spot’s using him for his pleasure, the way Spot’s breathing quickens and his grip in Race’s curls tighten the more he works. It’s everything he’s been waiting for, even more than Spot, more than getting to make him feel good too — being on his knees for any man, being unmistakably _deviant_ , feels better than he’d ever thought it could.

Knowing that pushes him to redouble his efforts, to push to see Spot come undone because of him, on his knees in the attic bedroom he has a sneaking suspicion he’s the first to see, to see Spot Conlon just as wrecked and rough and wild as he is. As he forces himself to let Spot have his way, ignoring his reflexes screaming at him to breathe, he feels his eyes prick with tears, hot and stinging as he blinks rapidly in an attempt to stave them off.

Spot laughs above him, and Race looks up through his lashes to find Spot staring down at him, cruel and domineering in his gaze. “You gonna cry ‘cuz ya can’t take it?” he asks, voice rough. Race blinks, and a tear rolls down the side of his cheek as Spot pushes further in again. “Poor little ‘hattan slut can’t handle five seconds a’ my cock down his throat,” Spot teases.

Race whimpers around Spot as those words flow through him, electrifying and everything he’s wanted Spot to say. Spot continues, voice harsh as he talks.

“Ya wanted this, huh? Wanted me to make you cry, wanted me to get ya on ya knees, wanted me to — _fuck,_ Racer, do that again,” Spot growls, thrusts slowing, groan low in his throat as Race focuses on that sensitive spot just beneath the tip of his cock.

Spot eventually pushes him off, and as Race gasps for air, chest heaving and drool sliding down his chin, tears flowing freely now as he catches his breath and Spot’s words wash over him again. Spot works himself quickly with his own hand, his own breathing heavy as he watches Race catch his breath. It doesn’t take long, and Race watches, enraptured, as Spot lets out a guttural moan as his orgasm rocks through him. He doesn’t even realize he’s leaning forward, presenting himself, until Spot reaches out a hand and grabs him by the hair, holding his face in place as he comes. Race gasps at the sensation, at the _ownership_ inherent in the act of letting Spot come on his face, the hot wetness as it lands, mixing with his tears, the feeling of it sliding down his cheek, his chin, onto his lips and into his mouth. He licks at his lips tentatively, and can’t hide the grimace at the saltiness, the sharpness. He’s not sure what he expected with that, really, but he decides then he’d much rather let Spot come all over him again.

Race opens his eyes and finds Spot staring at him, still breathing hard at the exertion, and Race grins at him as he licks his lips. He may not love the taste, but he has a feeling Spot would like seeing him enjoy it, and he’s rewarded with one of those trademark king-of-Brooklyn smirks.

“Ya look so fuckin’ used,” Spot whispers.

“Thanks,” Race says, and his eyes widen as he hears how abused his own voice sounds. “I think ya should use me some more,” he murmurs, biting at his lip just because he knows it drives Spot crazy. He can feel his tears and Spot’s come drying on his cheeks, and the only word he can think to say is _more._

“Insatiable, aren’t ya?” Spot asks, grabbing Race by the hair as he pulls him to his feet. Race groans, at the pull of Spot’s grip in his hair and the relief in his knees as he finally straightens out.

Race nods in agreement, looking down in the hopes that Spot will take pity on him and the _effect_ his little lesson had on him. Spot follows his gaze and laughs softly, bringing a hand to rest on Racer’s hip.

“Ya wanna get off too?” he asks, and Race grins. “Too bad.”

“What, wait- Spotty, ya can’t leave me like this—”

“Oh?” Spot asks, twisting his grip in his hair, and Race shuts up at the look on his face. “Ya gonna tell me what to do now?” Race shakes his head as much as he can with Spot’s hand holding him still, letting a pleading glance into his eyes. Spot doesn’t buy it, and smiles slowly at him instead, in that dangerous, lethal way that means Race is about to pay for his insubordination.

“I says ya wait, ya _wait_ ,” Spot growls, bringing Race close enough so that his lips brush his ear. “‘S that clear?”

Race nods, struck silent by the command in Spot’s tone, even as it makes him ache even more for Spot to touch him.

“Good.” He lets go of Race and Race reaches for him, knowing exactly what it will get him — a hand on the throat, gripping tight as Spot talks him down.

“Go home, Racer,” he says lowly, voice rough, vicious. “Go home, an’ think a’ me when you’s make yourself come tonight. Think a’ my cock down your throat and my come in your hair, and come wishin’ it was by my hand. An’ maybe, _maybe_ , next time, it will be.” He lets go and Race takes a deep, steadying breath, letting Spot’s words course through him, fold into him, twist around his insides and tighten that molten core inside of him. Race buttons up his shirt quickly and bends to pick up his vest, knees still groaning in protest.

The walk back to Manhattan will be a slow one, then.

“When can I’s come back?” Race asks, and Spot smirks at him.

“Friday. Not before then. Meet me at the bar.” Race beams at him, licking his lips eagerly.

“Aren’t ya gonna gimme somethin’ to clean up with?” he asks as he pauses at the door, gesturing vaguely to his face. He can feel it drying, and as much as he likes to imagine how whorish and fucked out he looks, it’s not the most comfortable thing.

Spot smiles. “No. Have fun.”

“You’s somethin’ else, Conlon.”

“So they tell me,” Spot says, and winks at him as the door closes. If Racer’s heart flutters at that, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My semester ends on Monday and then hopefully I will be able to get back to posting more regularly!!! As always, if you liked it, leave kudos or a comment, they make an author's day <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo this is a shorter chapter than the rest but the next chapter is the one you're all waiting for ;)

_Angelic?_

_Corrupted._

That had been a lie, and knowing that has kept Spot up for hours.

 _Show me just how bad it can hurt,_ Racer had begged, with roaming hands and that sinful grin that made Spot want to do just that. Made him want to take him where he stood, show him just how brutal he could really be, let out that inner monster he kept so tightly tucked away. He’d never let anyone see him stripped down to his barest self — that was something even he kept hidden, locked inside his mind, and only indulged when he’d had a strong drink and a night to himself to think about those dark desires.

Those dark desires have a face to them, now.

When he pictures dragging a blade along skin, that skin is soft as silk and pale as porcelain. When he pictures striking a face already streaked with tears, that face belongs to a boy with blond hair and blue eyes and pink, bow-shaped lips. When he pictures a boy passed out beneath him, still being used for his pleasure, that boy is Racetrack Higgins.

And yet...

Racer’s innocence, that bright light inside of him that showed itself in the widening of his eyes and the hesitation before committing himself to trying something new, something _deviant_ … it was still intact. After the alley, after the bar and the closet and his bed, after Spot’s hands had been all over him, it was still whole. Still glowing, still shiny and new just like Race himself.

Spot had touched it, briefly, watching Racer’s eyes flutter closed as he choked him, tears streaming down his cheeks, Spot himself streaked across his face in a gorgeous, filthy display. Touched it, but not damaged it. Racer’s innocence ran deeper than anyone he’d ever come across — and that naïveté, so infuriating in most people, was somehow _not_ when it came to Race. And so he’d decided to go slowly, easing Racer into his world — innocence was not something one found often in the back-alley bars and illegal speakeasies of Brooklyn, and Spot had wanted to savor it. Take his time with it. Take his time watching every bit of Racer’s innocence, that childlike wonder in his eyes, crumble to pieces as he fucked him and filled him with carnal knowledge instead, until his eyes were brimming with it and he was left begging for more.

Spot’s commitment to _taking his time_ is growing weaker by the day. Sending Racer away, pants so obviously tented, come staining his face and hair ( _God,_ that fucked-out hair, tousled by Spot’s hands and so indicative of sex and domination), had left Spot pacing the floor, cursing himself for not taking Race then and there. Even knowing he’d be back soon, knowing if he knew anything about Race he’d thrive on those last instructions, count the days until he could come back to Brooklyn, he can feel his grip on his control slipping — slowly, but slipping nonetheless.

Spot’s patience isn’t infinite. And Racer made Spot want to leave him wrecked and ruined all in one night, take those bright blue eyes and make them darker than his own. He could — he could so, _so easily_ , with Race as eager and as naïve as he is. Naïveté that Spot is fighting hard not to take advantage of, if only so he could savor it and make it last.

 _When can I’s come back?_ That simple question, one Race will never think twice about, says everything Spot needs to know about the hold he has on Racer. He’s got him right where he wants him, and he’s not entirely sure when he started _wanting_ Race that way, but the ownership he’d felt looking at Race hadn’t felt bad. Not at all.

Wanting to be the one — the _only_ one — to debase and defile Racetrack Higgins is easily explainable. Territorial is not a word Spot would use to describe himself — territorial implies loyalty, commitment, vested interest. The only vested interest Spot has is in Race’s innocence, and how badly he wants to ruin it.

And really, there’s no good reason Spot’s been waiting anyways. Race wants heartless — had said so from the beginning, had been begging and begging for it, turning up in those dark corners of Brooklyn with that insatiable look in his eyes that had Spot dropping everything to slam him against whatever vertical surface he could find.

That itch — that constant urge to dominate, to control, to degrade and corrupt and ruin, just _ruin_ and leave wrecked, broken, used and abused in every way possible — it’s getting harder to ignore. Spot wishes, suddenly, that he hadn’t said Friday — it was days away, days Spot would have to spend putting out fires and dealing with whatever the younger newsboys get themselves into instead. He —

“Conlon!”

That’s Hotshot — only his second would get so bold as to pound on his door like that, or to address him as _Conlon_.

“What?” he snaps.

“Open the door!”

Spot groans and stands from his bed, scowling as he crosses the few feet to his door and unlocks it. Hotshot is standing just outside the door, fist raised to no doubt bang on the door again.

“What? It’s early.”

“We gotta talk,” he says, and Spot arches an eyebrow at the demand. He steps back and gestures sarcastically for Hotshot to come inside. Hotshot does, stepping into the small room and turning to look back at Spot, arms crossed and brow knitted in concern.

“What?” Spot asks again, exhaustion wearing his patience thin.

“We gotta problem,” Hotshot replies. Spot doesn’t say anything, instead grimacing as he sits down on the edge of his mattress and shoves on his boots. There go any hopes of catching a few more minutes of sleep before dawn.

“A… a couple a’ the guys ain’t too happy ‘bout you lettin Higgins into the house. He’s Manhattan, he ain’t trustworthy, an’...” Hotshot trails off at Spot’s expression.

“I let him in, that means I says he’s trustworthy. Or do you’s not respect my judgment?”

“I do!” Hotshot defends, holding his hands up in protest. “The… the others just ain’t so happy ‘bout it. An’ you know I’s fine with… with what you two’s are doin’ up here, but some a’ the others only let it slide ‘cuz they’s scared a’ you. But if they’s start questionin’ ya judgment too, I just-”

“Ya worried ‘bout them wantin’ me out ‘cuz I take Higgins up here for my personal business?” Spot asks, wanting to be sure he understands Hotshot before he lets himself get angry. Even if he can already feel that anger that runs through his veins taking over again.

Hotshot’s silence tells him enough, and Spot stands from the bed, cracking his neck as he stares Hotshot down.

“Give me names.”

***

Putting a bunch of twelve-year old Brooklyn punks in their place was _not_ how Spot had planned on starting his day, but getting to flex his power first thing in the morning had its perks. The scared looks on the younger newsies’ faces as he’d paced the length of their room, asking them exactly who they thought they were to question his judgment, had been worth it, if anything. Spot doesn’t like yelling — he much prefers keeping his voice low, quiet, letting his reputation and clenched fists do most of the work for him.

Reasserting his authority had been a good way to remind himself of a few things, too. That he’d taken this role on by force, and that he’s not afraid of spilling more blood to keep it. That his judgment is most certainly _not_ impaired — of all the Manhattan newsies, Higgins is one of the least threatening ones out there, almost painfully naïve and not worth worrying about in the least. And that he’s still Spot Conlon, and that name carries weight.

He goes through the same spiel a few times, stalking from room to room as he makes his way through the lodging house and reasserting himself each time. Every encounter ends the same — mumbled apologies, downcast eyes, a promise of loyalty. He can feel Hotshot’s eyes burning a hole in his back as he does, dutifully following him through the house.

He knows he’ll have to have that conversation sooner or later — Race has made offhand comments more than once about Hotshot’s dislike for him, made glaringly obvious any time they ran into each other in Brooklyn, enough for Spot to know _a couple of the guys_ really meant Hotshot. A loyal second, he’d have thought Hotshot would be bold enough to take his issues right to Spot. He might have to push harder to get that out of him.

A second holding his tongue isn’t something Spot plans to allow for much longer. Hotshot’s loyalty isn’t in question — even as impulsive as he is, Hotshot isn’t idiotic enough to go up against him. He owes him, regardless, and always will. Having that knowledge in his back pocket has always been useful, but even without that, Hotshot has always been reliable. Judgmental, yes (not that Spot doesn’t appreciate an opinionated second — his _opinions_ tend to be in good faith, even if they get on his nerves more often than not), but Brooklyn was always his priority.

He makes a mental note to talk with Hotshot that night, set things straight, as he sets out from the circulation window.

Spot sells that day with a vengeance, hawking headlines to anyone he can find, flashing sickly sweet smiles, faking truths, striking up small talk that would give Racer and that red-headed prankster friend of his — Albert, if he’s remembering correctly — a run for their money.

Selling like he does, raking in cash like nobody’s business, should be enough to prove to anyone left with doubts that not only did he claw his way to the top, but he’d _earned_ that spot by selling better than anyone else. Intimidating as he knows he is, he can also turn on the charm when he needs to — a skill he’d learned in those years before being a newsie, living wild on the streets and coming to depend on the kindness of strangers for handouts. Strangers didn’t like the wild, violent boys — they liked the orphans they could pity, who said “please” and “thank you” and made them feel better about themselves. So he’d become what they’d wanted, right up until he’d been taken in by an older newsie, shown the ropes, been slowly let into the pseudo-family they’d created.

He’d learned to walk the line of public and private over the years, how to sell and fake that cheery orphan persona people loved, and how to let his _real_ self show through to those who mattered — people who knew Spot Conlon couldn’t think he was weak. And so Spot Conlon, the king of Brooklyn, became an unlikely leader to any who saw him on the street, and yet anyone in the know feared him twice as much — knowing he could fake a sugar-sweet smile as easily as he could knock a guy out with one punch tended to create an atmosphere of unease around him.

He likes it better that way. The apprehension and fear from the other newsies is much better than the pity from strangers. He relishes the hours he spends after he’s done selling for the day, getting to glare at whoever he pleases, not having to fake a smile just to make a dime. He can stalk down the street, crowds parting instinctively, and not worry about what being so unapproachable might mean for the younger newsies. It’s a relief, really, when no one wants to be near him. He can relax on his own.

The only time his face isn’t set in that permanent scowl is whenever he goes to the basement, or one of the other illegal bars. Something about being surrounded by men, other men who understand, other men who want him the same way he wants them, makes living day-to-day a bit easier.

Just a bit.

He finds himself in another bar, downtown this time, nursing a drink and staring at the men who crowd the dance floor and the space along the walls, talking and laughing and dancing and enjoying themselves.

Several of them catch his eye, some he might even consider if he weren’t in such a foul mood. Selling out early hadn’t done much to help the grouchiness that had started when Hotshot had knocked on his door (or really, if he was being honest, as soon as Race had left). Setting things right with Hotshot had taken two minutes — Hotshot wasn’t one to dance around a subject, and all it had taken to get things out in the open was a direct question. Hotshot had apologized and promised he knew better than to question his judgment, Spot had reminded him loyalty was useless without honesty, and that had been that. And yet, here he is, pissed off and drinking to take off that edge that was once again chipping away at him.

He shouldn’t have sent Race away.

There it is, that stupid, obvious conclusion he took the whole goddamn day to come to. He’s been too kind, taking it slow, giving it to Race in bits and pieces. Racer deserves it hard, fast, rough — Racer deserves brutal, Racer deserves to leave the Brooklyn lodging house looking like a fucked-out, fucked-up whore. Racer deserves —

_No._

_Race_ doesn’t deserve anything — he’ll take what Spot gives him, because Spot doesn’t _care_ what Race wants. Because Spot has him right where he wants him. Because Spot is the goddamn king of Brooklyn and a Manhattan newsboy coming onto his territory to make demands of him can really only end one way.

Friday. Spot can will until then — _will_ wait until then, because Spot does not get impatient when it comes to boys.

And when he does see Race, he’ll show him worse than heartless.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you started this fic because it's smut, this is definitely the chapter you've been waiting for. Enjoy!

Race doesn’t wait until Friday.

In fact, he very deliberately decides not to wait until Friday, opting instead to cross the bridge again on a Wednesday.

Patience has never been Race’s strong suit, and after being sent home looking like a back-alley whore, Race isn’t exactly willing to wait much longer. Even after wiping himself clean as best he could with his overshirt, he’d still _felt_ like a whore. He’d been used like one, spoken to like one, sent out the door like one — he’d been almost sure Jack and the others would’ve been able to tell, but when he slipped inside that night, they’d barely paid him any mind, although he’d felt Jack’s eyes following him in silent appraisal. No one had said a word though, which suited him just fine — they’d played cards well into the night, just like any other, _and_ he’d won, just like any other night. And now he’s crossing the bridge in an all-too-familiar path that’s starting to feel like any other night too.

Well, not a _night,_ per se — he’d meant to wait for night to come, had really, _really_ tried to wait, show some semblance of restraint, but by mid-afternoon he’d lost that battle entirely and decided that missing the afternoon edition wouldn’t hurt his pockets _too_ bad. If he scraped by and skipped a few meals. And saved. And gambled. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the most brilliant idea in the world, but his hands aren’t near enough now that he’s had Spot’s and he’s tired of waiting.

He has a small feeling Spot’s going to comment on that too. A small shiver of excitement goes through him at the thought of Spot’s voice, harsh and rough and low, teasing him for his impatience and inability to resist impulse.

Impulse had brought him into Spot’s orbit, though, so he supposes maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

He finds Spot on a street corner, the entire area clear of any other newsies — he supposes Spot’s scared any competition away, but looking at Spot now, _scary_ would be the opposite of how he’d describe him. His smile is huge, if a bit forced, and he’s making conversation with a family outside a store. His voice carries, and Race frowns as he realizes Spot’s accent is much more subdued than usual. Race leans against a streetlamp, keeping his posture relaxed and casual, and waits. The family clears out soon after Race arrives (with a paper tucked under the father’s arm, of course), and Race makes his move, striding towards Spot as he hawks one of the last papers of the afternoon.

“I don’t have any money on me,” Race says loudly (a lie, but he’s trying to flirt), “but can I offer ya somethin’ else?” He winks at Spot and Spot turns slowly to stare at him.

“Higgins.”

Race grins wide at the shock and irritation on his face. “What, ya ain’t happy ta see me?”

“I told ya Friday,” Spot says. There’s no small amount of frustration there, and Race has a feeling Spot isn’t used to even throwaway orders being challenged like this.

“Ya need ta loosen up, Spotty,” he quips. “Bet I’s can help with that. Give ya somethin’ nice an’ relaxin’.”

Spot’s eyes narrow, and Race smiles, wide and uncaring. That’s enough for Spot to snap.

It turns out they’re not far from the Brooklyn lodging house — Spot likes to stay close in case he’s needed, which makes sense, he supposes, in a sweet way (not that he’d ever say that to Spot’s face, unless he _wanted_ to get soaked) — and Spot nearly drags Race up the stairs by the hair. He’s muttering under his breath about something (Race thinks he can make out _brat_ and grins even as Spot’s grip on the back of his neck tightens), and he practically shoves Race through the door and onto the bed.

Race scoots back on the bed, toeing his boots off as Spot shrugs off his own vest and tosses it to the floor. He examines Race for a second, eyes dark, before he crosses his arms.

“Stand up.”

Race’s brow furrows in confusion. “But, didn’t-”

“ _Now_.”

Race stands, and Spot’s hand snakes immediately into his hair, fingers twisting in his curls as he pulls him down to speak directly into his ear.

“Ya insubordinate little brat,” he hisses, and Race lets out a gasp as Spot’s grip, almost impossibly, tightens. “I told ya Friday, I told ya to _wait_ , and ya can’t even follow that one simple fucking instruction, huh? Missed the afternoon edition an’ everythin’ just to come here. What’d ya do, wander ‘round ‘til ya found me? Pathetic,” he continues, free hand reaching down between them to palm at the front of Racer’s pants. He scoffs in disgust and Race has to bite his lip to keep from moaning, teeth digging into the soft skin so hard he thinks he might draw blood.

“Pathetic,” he repeats. “Already hard, too fucking stupid and horny to think straight, right? All ya can fuckin’ think about is comin’ back here, I’s bet.”

“Spot, I-”

“I didn’t fuckin’ say you’s could speak,” Spot snaps, and Race’s mouth closes. He’s not quite sure what changed, what’s put Spot so on edge, but he can’t say he minds. Something about Spot this pissed off, this unrestrained, is truly a sight to behold.

“I’s sick of lettin’ ya get away with shit,” he says, and Race raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

“How ya made me leave last time is _lettin’ me get away with shit?_ ” he asks, voice incredulous.

Spot shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “Ya still don’ get it, do ya? I’s been _nice_ wit’ you, Racer.”

“Why?” he asks, question slipping past his lips before he can stop himself.

Suddenly, Spot’s grip on his hair disappears, and Race barely has time to bring a hand to his head before Spot has him turned around, slamming him up against the nearest wall, Race narrowly missing a bruised nose as he turned his head at the last second. Spot is flush against him instantly, breath hot in his ear.

“Listen up,” he whispers, and Race’s mouth falls open in shock at the sharpness of his voice. It sends a chill up his spine, a cold knife dragging slowly across the exposed knobs of his spine as Spot speaks, words slow and careful. “I’s gonna fuck you, on my bed, now. I won’t be nice. I don’t know how. If you’s want out, you tell me now.”

The only sound that fills the room is Race’s panting breaths, and he can practically hear Spot smirk in response.

“Course,” he scoffs, and spins Race back around, pressing him into the wall harshly.

"Pick a word," Spot says, eyes boring into his.

"What?"

"Any word, 's long as it's not related to sex." Race blinks at him, still breathing hard, and Spot gets closer. "Now."

"Newspaper," Race blurts out. Spot nods, and Race can see him locking that into his mind.

"Good. You say that, I'll stop. 'Til then, shut the fuck up."

Newspaper. Race can barely complete the thought of _why the fuck did I pick newspaper?_ before Spot’s lips are on his, harsh and insistent and everything he’s been waiting for. Every kiss, every touch from Spot, even at his most selfish, his most vulgar, had been restrained. Controlled. And now, getting even a taste of Spot off his leash, it’s all Race can do to press every line of his body into Spot’s and wait for him to deliver on his promises.

Spot moves quickly to his neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive spot beneath his ear he’d discovered weeks ago, teeth pulling at his skin with just enough pressure to slip past pleasure and turn to pain. Race lets out a hissed breath through his teeth, aching to take it for Spot like he’s promised him he can, eager to show him just how good he can be, too.

Spot’s teeth are sharp, and his words are sharper, said in between kisses and bites with a harshness that makes Race think maybe he’s been waiting to say these things. To call him _my filthy fuckin’ whore,_ to tell him he deserves it like some trash he’d find on the street. Race preens under it all, the heady mix of pleasure and pain and humiliation overwhelming his senses as his vision slowly whites out from the sensation of Spot’s lips dragging over aching bruises he’d given him himself.

Race isn’t quite sure when Spot had lost his shirt, or when he’d relieved him of his own, but when Spot backs him onto the bed the scratchy blanket is overbearing on his senses, and as Spot straddles his lap, Race sits up on his elbows to kiss at any part of Spot he can reach, savoring the salty taste of his body as Spot moans and runs a hand through his hair.

“You’d do anything for me,” Spot sighs out, and Race nods automatically, the truth of the words washing over him like a drug. He _would,_ for this, for Spot’s lips and Spot’s hands and Spot’s cock, hard against his thigh.

“Say it,” Spot demands, arching an eyebrow. Race moans in response as Spot’s hand tightens in his hair, and Spot pulls him closer. “Say it.”

“I would,” Race breathes. “I would do anything for this,” he says. Something flickers in Spot’s eyes and he smirks, redoubling his grip.

“I know.”

He shoves Race flat against the mattress and busies himself with the clasp on his pants, pulling them down around Race’s hips enough for Race to kick them off himself. Spot runs a hand down Race’s chest, palm flat against his skin, fingers trailing past every rib, lingering on the smattering of freckles close to his navel. Race shudders underneath his touch, breath quickening at the thought of Spot staring him down like an object, one he owns, one he plans to use thoroughly for his own pleasure. That thought alone sends a pulse of pleasure through him, and he moans loudly, just as Spot’s hands slide to grip his waist.

“Needy little thing, aren’t you?” Spot teases, and Race laughs, spreading his legs wide.

“I’s pretty flexible, ya know,” he says with a light smile. Spot narrows his eyes at that.

“Noted.”

A bottle appears in Spot’s hands, one Race isn’t sure he recognizes, and he frowns in confusion.

“Is that—?”

“Oil,” Spot says roughly. “I’s gotta prep ya, otherwise you won’t be walkin’ anytime soon.” He pours a generous amount over his fingers, and Race feels himself tense in anticipation as he realizes just what, exactly, is about to happen.

“Relax,” Spot drawls, noting the way Race’s stomach clenches with nerves. “You’s been so easy and open this whole time, don’t stop now,” he says, and brings a hand to Race’s cock. Race tenses and then relaxes at the slick, cool sensation, Spot’s hand easy as ever to relax into. Even as Spot’s fingers trail lower, he feels euphoric, almost —

“ _Fuck_ , Spot,” Race gasps, as Spot teases open his hole. The sensation of being stretched is entirely new, and it fills him completely. Between the slickness of the oil and the slow, calculated thrust of Spot’s fingers, Race feels… entirely, entirely debauched. Every bit the whore Spot has promised he’d make him.

“Ow, fuck,” Race curses as Spot presses in deeper. Spot doesn’t stop, and a feeling of finality settles in Race as he realizes just how serious Spot was about that word. Even knowing that, he feels no impulse to say it, not even an inkling. He’s not sure what that says about him, even as the mix of pain and pleasure continues, Spot’s fingers driving in deeper, other hand gripping him with bruising ownership.

Spot laughs, and when Race manages to open his eyes and look up at Spot, Spot’s eyes are glazed over, laser focused on his hand between Race’s legs, slowly opening him up. Spot licks his lips, and Race shifts to reach a hand down and squeeze at Spot’s own bulge, tight against the front of his pants. Sure enough, Spot grabs his wrist in his hand and pins it to the bed.

“Not happening,” he chides, and Race pouts. Spot smirks at him and his hand shifts, and suddenly Race is keening back, moan practically ripping from his throat as Spot presses another finger in, pace slow but insistent. Always slow, always deliberate, and always relentless.

“How the fuck does that feel so fucking good,” Race moans, and Spot speeds up the pace. The pain is receding, slowly but surely, as Spot continues to fuck him open, but even that pain feels like pleasure, knowing it comes from Spot, knowing Spot likes watching his face contort in pain just as much as pleasure.

“This is nothing,” Spot says, voice breathy, brow furrowed as he fucks Race slowly. Race can see the restraint in every line of his body, in the clench of his jaw, the tension in his arms.

“Then show me something,” Race challenges. Spot looks at him incredulously, expression quickly replaced with something Race can really only describe as animalistic.

“You really want it to hurt, huh?” he asks, and Race nods eagerly.

“Yes,” he sighs. “Yeah. Yes.”

Spot shakes his head as he continues to ease his fingers in and out of Race, slow but steady motions fading slowly to mere pleasure as the other hand seeks out that bottle of oil. He pours some sloppily over his own hand and then his cock, taking himself in hand and lining himself up slowly. Race stares, so distracted by the sensation of Spot’s fingers inside him that he hadn’t even thought about Spot’s cock — much larger than his fingers, certainly.

He swallows nervously, and Spot laughs. “You know the word,” he taunts. Race shakes his head.

“Not a chance,” he manages, voice shaky. Spot grins at him.

“Good answer.”

Spot’s fingers pull out slowly, and Race sucks in a sharp breath as those fingers are replaced with his cock. He’s slow, at least at first, and Race lets out a low groan at the feeling of being utterly, utterly filled. The stretch is painful, to say the least — whether in a good way or not, Race can’t tell yet, but Spot starts to move and Race’s legs are shaking and he can’t form a single thought, let alone a coherent one about the mix of sensations he’s feeling right now.

“Fuck, you are so fuckin’ tight,” Spot mutters, shifting to get a better angle. Race moans, far from capable of a proper response, and Spot huffs a laugh as he watches Race fall apart.

“Poor little virgin ‘hattan newsboy, has to go to Brooklyn just to get the kinda fuck he needs,” Spot taunts, pulling out slowly. “Not so virginal anymore, are ya?”

Race, finally getting a hold of himself, finds the strength to grind down on Spot, letting himself get a taste of something harder, rougher.

“Oh, is _that_ what you want?” Spot asks. He grins, something feral and dreadful and Race gasps as Spot’s grip on his hips tightens.

“Wait, wait wait wait—”

“No,” Spot growls, and thrusts in harder. A sharp cry falls from Racer’s lips and Spot laughs, snaking a hand up into Racer’s hair. He turns Race’s head to the side, taking in the furrowed brow and parted lips and the tears adorning those long, long eyelashes.

“Fucking good,” he whispers, leaning over Race and capturing Race’s lips in a kiss. Race can barely kiss back, barely think enough to do anything at all as Spot thrusts into him, brutal and unforgiving pace sending him spinning. The only thing he can do is _feel_ — feel Spot’s cock inside him, stretching him so much he thinks he might tear apart at the seams, feel Spot’s hands, one on his hip and the other at his throat, feel the tears that have been pricking at the backs of his eyes since Spot started opening him up spill over as everything grows to be _too fucking much._

“Yes,” Spot groans, pace speeding up impossibly. “Cry for me, Racer,” he says, and a sob rips from Race’s throat, unbidden and humiliating and exactly what he needs.

Once it starts, he can’t stop, the overwhelming pleasure and the pain of Spot inside him much too much for him to handle, and he sobs as Spot talks him through it, sobs as he realizes how fucking much he’s needed this, how much he’s been missing out on until now, how he would do anything, become anything for it all again.

“Cry,” Spot repeats, almost a mantra on his lips, and Race does, tears hot and fast on his cheeks as Spot fills him over and over again, stretching him mercilessly each time. He barely notices when Spot takes his cock in his hand and begins to work him in time, sensations blurring together. Race comes, barely registering it beyond a near-impossible increase in the pleasure he’s feeling, and Spot doesn’t stop, still urging him on, murmuring for him to cry, to beg, to keep letting him use him, fuck him, fill him. And Race does, letting Spot own him entirely, surrendering every facet of his being to him.

Soon — too soon — Spot pulls out, working himself quickly, and Race cries out at the absence of pleasure, aftershocks still reverberating through him. He moans as the hot streams of Spot’s come land in streaks across his chest and his thighs, guttural groans Spot lets out sinful, unrestrained.

Race is still crying, he realizes, as Spot stares at him with wide eyes, coming down from his own orgasm — the tears don’t stop coming, as he lets everything wash over him, and Spot brings a hand to Race’s cheek. Slowly (almost reverently, Race thinks), he wipes a finger under Race’s eyes, catching the tears that don’t stop on the pad of his thumb.

“You can keep crying,” he says, voice quiet but not soft. “I don’t mind.”

Race brings a hand to rest over Spot’s where it lingers at his jaw, eyes welling up again despite himself.

“Really,” Spot says. “I’s like it, you… you don’t have to be embarrassed.” Race blinks at him in wonder through his tears, at the sheer earnestness in his voice.

“You… you like it?” he asks, and then clears his throat immediately at how pathetically small his voice sounds.

“Seein’ you cry? Hell, Racer, it’s fuckin’ gorgeous watchin’ ya cry, knowin’ it’s ‘cuz of me.”

Race manages a small smile at that, at the pleasure that comes in being able to cry freely. His eyes flutter shut, letting the small warmth of Spot’s hand on his cheek and that damn scratchy blanket be some comfort as his body comes down from that dizzying high.

The last thing he registers before the world fades entirely is a soft cloth, held by Spot, cleaning the come from his body as he drifts off to sleep.


End file.
